


20-Working Out the Kinks

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 4, The Long Shadow [20]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, BDSM, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-12
Updated: 2008-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Obi-Wan's latest flashback, some new, uh, complications, come to light. Therapy fic with a little BDSM thrown in and some non-con for Non-Con November.</p>
            </blockquote>





	20-Working Out the Kinks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gloriana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloriana/gifts).



> Many thanks to Gloriana for getting me over the hump and urging me to dig into Qui-Gon’s murky, conflicted head.

“As I said yesterday, Ow, I’d like you to talk to a group of people I work with,” healer Tianna Iolan told him in his first scheduled session with her in tens. It had been five days since his last and most disastrous flashback, one in which he’d nearly killed a man. It was the first flashback he had had in nearly a halfyear, though he had been back in the field for nearly five tens before this, and endured nearly a year of recovery time and therapies after the mission in which he’d been tortured and crippled. Obi-Wan had thought all was back to normal again until he’d suffered this latest flashback. Instead, he felt he was back to square one.

Tianna, who had known him since the creche, didn’t agree. She had called this “a bump in the road,” and suggested he begin working with a group she guided as part of a program run by the Refugee Committee of the Senate. “They’ve all been victims of torture,” she continued explaining, “some more recently than others, and they’ve been sharing their experiences with other victims and sometimes testifying like you did. I think it would help them to see someone who has come as far as you have, someone who’s as strong as you’ve been. And I think it would help you to see where some of them are, and how they got there. What do you think? More importantly, how do you feel?”

“Are these other Jedi or civilians? I mean, it shouldn’t matter—”

“But it does,” she agreed. “I understand.” And if anyone did, it was probably Tianna, Obi-Wan thought. She’d been working with people like these for years, since early in her own apprenticeship. “It’s usually a mix,” she explained, “but in this group it’s all civilians—at least in the sense they’re not Jedi. This is actually one of several groups I’m working with right now; there’s been a real spike in the problem lately, though none of us can understand why. The Order’s been lucky though. Our people have mostly avoided this situation. Except for you.”

Obi-Wan made a face. “Always the exception, that’s me.”

“I’ve already cleared it with the Council as part of your therapy, if you’re worried about that.”

“There goes that excuse.” He smiled wanly. “I don’t know, Ti. It makes me nervous, and that tells me I should probably do it. I’m just afraid I-I’ll . . .”

“If you’re going to have a flashback or a breakdown,” Tianna said gently, “you won’t find a more sympathetic group of strangers to have it with. They’ve all been right where you are now. Some of them still are.”

“No, you’re right,” he said quietly and took a deep breath. “Lead on,” he said, letting it out.

The group met outside the Temple, in a lounge area in one of the local hospitals; Tianna traveled over with him. The smell of bacta and antiseptic made Obi-Wan shiver a little, and that surprised him. No one liked being confined to the Healers Halls, but he’d never had the instinctual aversion he was feeling here.

“It’s all the suffering,” Tianna told him. “The location makes it harder for Jedi, but it’s convenient for the others. I want you to keep your shields as minimal as possible too, though I know it’ll be hard. Buck up. I know you can take it.” She patted his back and smiled at him. Obi-Wan returned it wanly. He’d begun to understand Qui-Gon’s feelings about being in the Halls.

It went better than he expected, at least in the beginning. The group was smaller than he thought it would be, having become a cast of thousands in his dread. But there were only six people, most older than he, two about the same age, evenly divided between men and women. They introduced themselves by turn, giving first names only. As Tianna had said, he was the only Jedi, but most were involved with politics or government in one way or another, and one had been tortured because of her spiritual beliefs. Though there weren’t any visible scars, they all had a haunted look in their eyes. Obi-Wan wondered if they could see the same expression in his. Instead of fear, he felt an almost instant kinship with them.

They listened with a respectful and intense silence to his story, which he managed to deliver in a clear and confident voice. He had the sensation that every single word held some weight for them. There was a respectful silence afterwards as well, at least for a few minutes, before his audience began to stir. A few wiped their eyes, one blew her nose quietly. No one met his gaze.

Finally, one of the men—about his age but clean-shaven and well-dressed—looked up at him. “Do you mind if we ask questions?”

“No. I’ve been talking about this in public for some time,” Obi-Wan replied, though he hadn’t anticipated this. He wondered why, given the forum. But the first one stunned him.

“Why did you volunteer for this? You had a choice, right?” It came from an older man who had introduced himself as Ren. He was a small man—shorter than Obi-Wan—with jet black hair streaked with grey, fine boned with narrow features and skin almost the color of Bruck’s.

For a moment, Obi-Wan didn’t know what to say, but he could feel the rage behind the question. “It must look very odd to all of you, who didn’t have a choice,” he said finally. “The short answer is ‘duty.’”

“And the long one?” The man was almost bristling. Obi-Wan found it painful and raised his shields a little until Tianna nudged him to let them back down again. She wanted him to stay open to the other feelings in the room.

“I-I have a very high pain tolerance,” he stammered, sounding and feeling strangely defensive, “and I was the logical choice for this particular mission. That was one of many factors. I can’t really discuss the others, I’m afraid, since it involves Jedi training. But yes, I volunteered. I had a choice. Did I know what I was getting into? I thought so, at the time. I was wrong.”

“You _knew_ you’d be tortured? And still you walked into it?” Ren’s voice brimmed with incredulity, rage bubbling just below it—the same kind of vengeful rage Obi-Wan realized he’d felt during his most recent flashback.

“Yes. My teammates documented what they found from the outside—or should I say the military point of view. I was to document it from the inside—from a prisoner’s point of view. The object of my participation was to be able to hold out long enough to be shipped off-world, if that was going on. And it was.”

“Then why are you here?” Ren demanded.

Obi-Wan was stunned. “Pardon?”

“What do you need therapy for? You asked for this!”

“Ren, that doesn’t change what was done to him,” the woman who’d introduced herself as Taki rebuked him, none too gently. “Back off. He’s suffered too.”

“I had—still have—flashbacks,” Obi-Wan said with a quiet dignity. “And I’m still angry about what was done to me, like you. It went beyond what I expected, because we really didn’t know how bad it was, and for reasons I can’t divulge, and—and because someone else on the team screwed up. Let’s just say I got in over my head and the mission didn’t go as planned.”

“Names of God! How could they ever prepare you, no matter what they told you?” another woman, Peri, remarked, shaking her head. “Nobody’s prepared for that. I certainly wasn’t, and if you’re honest, neither were the rest of you,” she added challengingly. No one argued. Ren looked away.

Slowly, the other stories came out; the cruelty made Obi-Wan sick. Taki, the woman who had first defended him, had been raped repeatedly by her captors in a military camp set up for the pleasure of soldiers. She had stopped speaking for more than a year, she said; only Tianna had been able, finally, to coax her story out of her. All the women had been raped; it seemed to be standard operating procedure with men who took female prisoners. Peri, a tall, statuesque women of about 45 whose hair was a shade of red that was nearly dark ruby in some lights, counted herself lucky as only having endured it once. “And I nailed the fucker, too,” she added with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “The rest of them were more careful after that. Though that didn’t stop them from doing other things,” she finished quietly, as though the wind had gone out of her sails. “I’m sure they’d have done it again, if I hadn’t been released so fast.” Eleria had been raped and beaten when soldiers broke into her extended family’s house and killed all the males; afterwards, she’d been tortured to coerce her into recanting her faith. She had been fifteen at the time. She was twenty now, and had grown into a beautiful young woman with a long, straight fall of thick brown hair, who was only now finding her voice and learning to speak up for others as well. She reminded Obi-Wan heartbreakingly of Jicky.

The men had not fared much better. Kimathi, a tall, quiet man with skin that was almost blue-black and a badly broken nose that made Qui-Gon’s look straight, rolled up his sleeves at one point to show the lines of circular, pink burn marks he said ran all over his body: a heated pipe, he said, from his own storeroom. “When one set had healed up, they would come at me again, even after I had started to invent things. Then I realized they were doing it because no one else cared if they did.”  Moskal, like Obi-Wan’s cover identity, had been “disappeared,” suspected wrongly of being a spy, professionally interrogated, beaten, starved and broken, then sent home to his frantic family a half-year later without even an apology when his captors discovered he merely shared a name with the person they had been seeking.

And Ren—no wonder Ren was so bitter, Obi-Wan thought after learning his story. Ren had been an intelligence officer and a prisoner of war for four years. Their stories, it turned out, were much alike, though Obi-Wan’s time in captivity had been far shorter.

Paradoxically, the stories also made Obi-Wan less angry—not about what had been done to him or to them, but about his own mission. He was beginning to understand why he’d been asked to make the sacrifice he had, and to feel less used as a result. But by the time it ended, he was also drained nearly dry.

“I don’t know if I can do this again, Ti,” he said on their way out, as they headed back toward the Temple. Tianna just smiled and nodded at something behind him. He felt someone taking his arm and folding it in their own, and turned to see Eleria’s slight frame beside him.

“You can,” she said. “The first time is the hardest. It is like that for everyone, splitting oneself open with strangers. But very soon, we’re not strangers anymore. We are friends, and some of us become family to each other, especially those who have lost ours. Do Jedi have family? Do you have family, Obi-Wan?”

Before he knew it, he was telling her about Qui-Gon, and his people on Dannora, about Jicky and Bruck and Bant. When he looked around again, Tianna was gone. He ended up in a café with Eleria, talking for another two hours about her activism, he promising to introduce her to Senator Organa, and to come back again for the next session. Then he went home and slept.

 

Qui-Gon found him curled up on the lounge, wrapped in a throw. Even in sleep, he looked haggard, and Qui-Gon merely touched his hair softly and went to make tea. When he came back with his own mug, Obi-Wan was sitting up on the sofa, blinking sleepily.

“Look at the time. I’ve been out for hours,” he muttered and yawned. “How long have you been here?”

“Just a few minutes, _kosai_. How did it go?”

Obi-Wan told him, finishing with, “I can see the therapeutic value, but, Little Gods, Qui, I think it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Worse than my pain trials. I’m told it will get easier, but I don’t believe it.”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Qui-Gon said, squeezing his knee affectionately. “But I know you’re up to the challenge.”

Obi-Wan smiled and threaded his fingers between Qui-Gon’s. “I must say, I think it will be a lot easier with you to run home to.”

Qui-Gon leaned in and kissed him tenderly. “Perhaps. Even though you’re strong enough to manage it yourself, as I know you are.”

* * *

 

Eleria and Tianna were both right; it did get easier, but not more pleasant. Obi-Wan began to actually anticipate the time he spent with this group of people; they shared a language and set of assumptions that even Tianna did not, and often understood each other instinctively. After the third session, though, Obi-Wan began to suspect that Tianna had asked him to come to this group in particular as a foil to Ren, who continued to be combative and dismissive of Obi-Wan’s experiences. He could only imagine what Ren had gone through for four years, living in primitive conditions, starved, beaten, threatened with execution daily, not knowing when he’d next be dragged in and subjected to brutal interrogation again, watching compatriots die or go mad under the psychological manipulation and stress. Mere days of the same treatment had left Obi-Wan with scars he was still discovering. Years of it, he imagined, would irreparably change, perhaps permanently cripple, one. He found himself treating Ren very gently and with the sort of compassionate kindness he’d watched Qui-Gon extend to wounded creatures of all kinds over the years. He felt, after a very short time, intensely protective of all of them.

He decided after one particularly harsh session in which Ren’s hatred of all things military and paramilitary became quite clear, that he was only provoking the man by wearing his Jedi garb. Though mostly the same fabric, Healers’ garb tended to be in soft colors and of a more varied and individual style, at least when they were in temple, so Tianna’s clothing had not triggered the same reaction.

So Obi-Wan went shopping.

Most of the new wardrobe he bought, which was not all that much compared with the average citizen, were casual clothes he might wear anywhere on Coruscant or on leave or downtime. They could just as easily be used for undercover work so it was easy enough to justify their purchase, even though he drew on his trust to pay for them. He also ordered an outrageously expensive hand-tailored suit in a soft metallic blue-grey with lavender undertones that the tailor insisted would bring out his eyes. Alone, it cost more than everything else he purchased combined and it felt like a true indulgence. But it was a useful midpoint between his working uniform and his very formal Jedi blacks—and he knew Qui-Gon would appreciate the view.

To assuage his guilt, he bought Jicky a set of brushes, and an ink stick and inkstone of her own, with an aim to fulfilling his promise of teaching her calligraphy. He also bought a new hand-carved inkstone for Qui-Gon, who seemed to be fiddling with his own calligraphy again, now that he was in temple for longer periods. It wasn’t more than a sop, and it didn’t stop the raised eyebrows he got coming through the door with his multiple packages.

“New garb for the university class you’ve been asked to teach?”

“Force, no!” Obi-Wan replied, trekking to their room to drop his parcels on their bed. Qui-Gon followed him and stood propped in the bedroom doorway, observing the unpacking with both amusement and anticipation, as Obi-Wan had known he would. “I intend to wear the full regalia for that, lightsaber and all.  I’ve taken classes with university undergraduates more recently than you have, and I know how little respect I’ll command at my age if I’m not invoking the full mystique of the Jedi Order with that lot.”

“You’ve already struck terror into the hearts of the next generation of senior padawans, I hear. So you intend to do the same with the unsuspecting civilian undergrads?” Qui-Gon asked with mischief in his voice.

“I do. It’s an over-enrolled class, so I plan to intimidate half of them into dropping, since they’ve probably signed up more out of curiosity about the instructor than any real interest in the subject. I’m not wasting my time grading inferior essays from Jedi groupies. Besides, we have a reputation to uphold.”

“If only that worked with knights and masters,” Qui-Gon said a little wistfully. “So what prompted the shopping spree, Knight Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan told him. “I don’t know if it will help make Ren see me more as a person than as a symbol, but it can’t hurt to take away one thing that may be a trigger for him.”

“Did Tianna suggest that?” Qui-Gon asked, curious.

“No, it’s my own theory. I thought it might defuse things between us a little. At any rate, it can’t hurt. He’s so bitter, Qui, and so filled with rage. It’s poisoning him. And I don’t think he’ll heal until he can get past that. Anymore than I can.”

Obi-Wan took the transformation one step further by cutting his hair and neatening up his beard, depilitating down to the bare skin everywhere but around his mouth and chin. In the field, such a neat beard would have been annoying to maintain, but in temple it was just another part of his morning ablutions. Qui-Gon decidedly approved. “That’s a remarkably attractive look on you,” he said, stroking one finger down Obi-Wan’s freshly bare cheek, “though please don’t go back to the padawan buzz. I’d like something to run my fingers through,” he requested, demonstrating.

Obi-Wan smiled lazily by way of reply. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of that pleasure.”

In his Jedi “regalia,” the newly shorn hair and carefully trimmed beard made him look older and more authoritative. For his first day of university class, he put on his crispest manner and his full field kit, polished to a high shine. He appeared at the breakfast table in it, to approving glances from Qui-Gon and quips from his own padawan. “Sheesh, Master, I thought you wanted to intimidate your students, not blind them.”

“Obviously, I’ve failed miserably in the former endeavor with you, Padawan,” Obi-Wan replied drily.

“Familiarity breeds contempt,” Qui-Gon agreed. “You’ve got it easy now; just wait until puberty hits.”

“Gross,” Jicky muttered under her breath and made the expected disgusted face. Obi-Wan let it pass with just a smile.

As Obi-Wan made his way out of the Temple, junior padawans scurried out of his path and senior ones stepped aside with respectful bows: just the effect he was looking for. Stepping up to the podium before his new class, he layered on his high-voltage Jedi Knight persona—what Bruck called “Stick-Up-the-Ass Kenobi”—usually reserved for negotiations with difficult participants and, with a raised eyebrow, surveyed the rowdy, talkative group until they fell into a cowed silence. The class was an advanced one in conflict resolution, and Obi-Wan had made the syllabus daunting for even the serious students. By the end of the first lecture period in which he had outlined his expectations, told them one harrowing negotiation story, and described the exercises he expected them to participate in, all in his briskest, plummiest tones, he estimated that he’d met his goal of weeding out the merely curious and the Jedi groupies, just from the number of faces that had blanched at the coursework requirements and those who were obviously put off by his manner.

The second class, two days later, proved him right, being halved in number. “Now,” he said, looking over the students who were left, “we can get down to business,” and gave them his most disarming smile. Within the first ten minutes, they were eating out of his hand.

He found a good use for the new wardrobe, as well, and wore some of the more casual items to class one day to illustrate the point that clothes can make the negotiator—or at least the first impressions of one. The black, open-necked shirt and tight pants had an unfortunate effect on at least two of his female students and one male student, who promptly developed crushes. He quashed that by having Qui-Gon—also in full Jedi regalia—meet him outside the classroom one day with a chaste yet proprietary kiss, to walk him home with an arm around his shoulder.

Ren, however, seemed unmoved by Obi-Wan’s change of appearance, at least at first. He eyed Obi-Wan suspiciously on the first day the Jedi appeared in civilian clothing, then, when Obi-Wan continued to wear them, gradually became less hostile—until Obi-Wan remarked one day that his own training as an interrogator hadn’t prepared him for being on the receiving end.

“You—you’ve interrogated p-prisoners?” Ren stammered, his eyes showing too much white. Obi-Wan and Tianna both felt a wash of terror and rage from him. “And you dare come here? You’re one of them! I knew it! You’re one of them!” Ren leaped to his feet and launched himself at Obi-Wan, whose own instincts took over. It was a clumsy attack from someone with very rusty fighting skills made clumsier still by uncontrolled rage—for which Obi-Wan was later grateful. He  blocked Ren’s blows easily, caught the smaller man’s wrists in one hand and in a moment had him face-down on the floor, pinned.

Ren struggled as though fighting for his life and it was all Obi-Wan could do not to hurt him by accident. Tianna was by their side then, her voice a soothing litany of reassurance and Force-influence, her hands touching Ren in gentle strokes, grounding him as he shook and babbled in a terrified voice in Obi-Wan’s grip.

And then it hit him: Ren was having a flashback. _So this is what it looks like,_ Obi-Wan thought, stunned. He was filled with a deep empathy that came from more than the sheer terror Ren was emanating, but from this own memories of the same experience. He remembered all the things Qui-Gon and others had said to him during his own flashbacks, to bring him back to the present, and repeated them quietly.

Gradually, Ren stopped struggling, only the occasional shudder betraying his distress; carefully, Obi-Wan eased his grip until Ren was lying without restraint on the floor, weeping silently, his face contorted. Obi-Wan felt his own eyes prickling. Oblivious to the rest of the group, who had knelt around them without crowding them, he sat himself crosslegged beside Ren and lay a hand lightly on his back, feeling the trembling beneath it.

“It didn’t prepare you, either, did it?” Obi-Wan said softly. “That’s the worst part. You think you’re ready, you think you can handle it, because they’ve trained you, haven’t they? You know all the tricks, you know what they’ll do, no surprises. How could there be? You’ve done it all yourself, more than once. And then they find that little piece of you that you didn’t know was there—”

“Yes,” Ren whispered, and closed his eyes. He lay still for a moment, barely breathing, then pushed himself upright. Obi-Wan helped him up, then sat back to let Ren gather himself together again. He kept a hand on Ren’s back, mirroring Tianna. He looked at her over Ren’s head and she nodded at him. _Go on._

“I’m not one of them, Ren,” Obi-Wan said. “Neither are you.”

Ren hung his head. “How do you know?” he choked.

“Because you’re afraid you are. The kind of person you’re afraid of being—they don’t worry about it. It doesn’t bother their conscience. They don’t question themselves or their motives. They just do it and forget it. Or worse yet, they _like_ it. People like us, when we question prisoners, it stays with us for the rest of our lives. It takes a little piece of us every time we do it.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I have a friend,” Obi-Wan said, thinking of Bruck, “who doesn’t have to hurt people to get accurate information from them. He’s very good at what he does. I think you’re someone like that. And that four years you spent being tortured betrayed everything you lived by. It made you question who you were before. And you still don’t know the answer.”

Ren, unable to speak, just sat there, tears trickling down his cheeks. Tianna rubbed his back in slow circles.

“Ren,” Kimathi said quietly, “the people Obi-Wan speaks of, the ones you are afraid of being like, those were the men who tortured me, too. You are not like them. You’re a good man, Ren.”

“So what is it you’re afraid of, Jedi?” Ren demanded, some of what Obi-Wan now recognized as self-protective combativeness coming back, though much of the sting was gone from it.

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “Maybe you can help me find out.”

 

Obi-Wan stayed behind until only Tianna remained, too drained to move. He hoped she would just let him sit, as he wasn’t sure he had the energy to carry on any more conversation, let alone one with her. But instead of leaving him alone, she sat beside him and picked up one of his hands, threading her fingers through his. He looked over at her and tried to smile, though it was a feeble attempt. _Might as well get it over with,_ he thought.

“I see why you asked me to work with this group,” he said.

“As much for your sake as for theirs, Ow,” Tianna replied.

“I’m not sure what I’m getting out of it.”

“No? You handled Ren’s flashback without blinking—”

“That’s because it was Ren’s flashback, not mine,” he said drily.

“—and with a remarkable amount of insight. I want you to think about what you said to him. That’s your homework.”

“Right after I have a long nap. Little Gods, I’m tired.” He scrubbed at his face with his free hand.

“And you know a large part of that is your own resistance, don’t you?”

Obi-Wan sighed, only half dramatically. “Yes, of course it is. Let me go, Ti. That’s enough for one day.”

“I agree,” she said. “But I won’t always be so easy on you.”

“ _That’s_ what I’m afraid of,” Obi-Wan replied in a wry voice and, with a supreme effort, pushed himself to his feet.

He forced himself to walk home through one of the outdoor markets, hoping to unwind, letting the colors and sounds and smells of the market soothe him and infuse him with enough energy to contemplate making dinner. Cooking had once again become a pleasurable activity, as meditative as raking gravel. The sight of the knives was no longer a trigger for him as it once had been. He’d been right about Ren’s trigger, he was certain now, but it wasn’t the only one. They all had several, but Obi-Wan was less certain about what all of his own were anymore. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. He picked up a few things, including a bottle of wine he knew Qui-Gon would like and a sweet pastry for Jicky, and headed home.

 

In his meditation that evening, he followed Tianna’s suggestion to think about what he’d said to Ren. Leaving himself open to the Force, he ran the scenario over in his mind several times, noting what phrases kept coming up: _It made you question who you were before. And you still don’t know the answer._

_Who I was before. Who was I before? Who am I now, instead?_ The question seemed harder to answer than he thought it would be.

What had changed? His confidence, certainly. The latest flashback had left him unsure of his ability to function effectively in the field, of whether he could be a good master to his padawan. He thought about his last several missions, most of them, as Qui-Gon had reminded him, diplomatic in nature. In part that was a nod to his padawan’s age and inexperience. In part it was a way of easing him back into the field, to see what he could cope with and what he couldn’t. It hadn’t taken much for him to reach his limit.

Obi-Wan turned that moment over in his mind, the moment he had burst into that cell and felt the past begin to well up around him like an incoming tide in a confined space. What had set him off? The man against the wall in chains? The sight of the burns from the prodstick on his body? The cowering woman trying to shield her child? All of it taken together? The chains, he decided. That had tipped him over the edge. But it had started earlier.

It had started with that sound, that wail of terror and despair and agony. That sound had pushed all his buttons and shaken his core, prompting an impulse first to flee then to make it stop. So he had rushed ahead without considering the consequences and found what he was afraid he’d find: a reflection of himself, how he must have looked during his own ordeal: blinded, vulnerable, naked, shaking with shock and pain—powerless.

Powerless.

The word was ashen in his mouth. He hadn’t escaped, hadn’t been able to free himself, hadn’t even tried. He knew it was foolishness to think this way; his job had been to stay a captive, and by the time he realized he might die as one, he’d been too badly injured to even make an attempt.

He went back to that word again— _powerless_ —examined it from all sides. What did it mean? What did he mean by it? Weak, certainly. Inept? Incapable? Feckless? Unqualified? A harsh appraisal of a man who’d had been systematically beaten and abused, had his hands crushed and nearly been skinned alive. Unless that was why—

No, that was just absurd. As much as he’d ever browbeaten himself, even he recognized that was too much. He was not incompetent. A different tack then.

_Powerless: not in control._

Obi-Wan could almost hear an audible _click_ in his brain. Not in control. Not. In. Control. Obi-Wan shivered and knew he was right.

Now he had a starting point.

* * *

 

He found what he was looking for the next day in the equipment stores, though the quartermaster looked at him oddly when he turned in the requisition.

“How long will you be needing this, Knight Kenobi?” the Ithorian asked.

“I’m not sure, Quartermaster. Not for long, I suspect. They won’t be leaving the premises.”

That drew an even odder look. “Would you like something to carry these in?”

“Yes, please. I’d rather not go clanking down the halls with a set of durasteel shackles trailing from my hands like some sad haunt.” The truth was, he was afraid carrying them in his hands might set off another flashback before he was ready.

The shackles clanked anyway, though the tool bag hid what they were. Obi-Wan felt silly carrying them, but apprehensive at the same time, and that told him he was on the right track. On the way back to his quarters, he reserved one of the smallest practice rooms, one tucked along a seldom-visited byway of the training area. A look inside revealed it as suitably gloomy for his purposes, with the added bonus of being Force-shielded. The latter was a vital requirement; no need to upset Jicky this time.

 

Qui-Gon, already home for some time, looked up when Obi-Wan came in the door and dropped  the tool bag to the floor with a thick clunk. That prompted a raised eyebrow, but no questions. Instead, he waited for Obi-Wan to offer an explanation in his own time. He looked, Qui-Gon thought, both a little pale and a little . . . guilty? Secretive? Hard to say which. The bond felt—odd.

The explanation wasn’t long in coming. Obi-Wan slipped off his boots and sat beside Qui-Gon on the lounge.

“Qui,” Obi-Wan began, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly. There was a slight taste of bitter tea in the bond that made Qui-Gon wary. “I have a hypothesis I’d like to test, and I need your help.”

“What’s the hypothesis?” Qui-Gon asked.

“I think—I want to see if I can set off a flashback with a particular stimulus.”

It wasn’t the most startling thing he’d ever heard Obi-Wan say, but it was close. “To what purpose? What would this prove?” Qui-Gon countered.

“So I’m sure about where to focus my efforts. I need to be clear about what I’m still afraid of. So I can work on getting over it.”

“And what does this involve?”

“A Force-shielded practice room and a set of durasteel shackles. I want you to, to string me up, Qui. In the shackles. From the overhead bars.”

Now, _that_ probably was the most outrageous thing Obi-Wan had yet said to him, in any context. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last, though. Already he could sense Obi-Wan’s fear prickling along the bond, turning it to burnt metal in his mouth. “Does Tianna know about this plan?”

“No, but—”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “I can’t see that provoking a flashback would serve any useful purpose, Obi-Wan. And I’m quite sure Tianna would not approve of your methodology.”

“Bear with me a moment, Qui. I’ve thought about this quite seriously. I think I have to do this one step at a time—”

“Do what, love?”

“If you’ll let me finish? I need to face my fears, correct?” Qui-Gon nodded. “And eliminate my triggers. To do that, I have to know what they are. Ren went after me yesterday because I became one of his torturers in his mind and he felt he was suddenly in a situation where he could take back control. He did the same thing I did on my last mission. For him, it was a stray remark I made, admitting I’d been a trained interrogator. But I’m not sure what set me off and I need to know. I think I know what it is, at least one of them, but I need to be certain.”

In its own way, it made a kind of sense. Qui-Gon pinched the bridge of his nose, hardly believing he’d admitted that, even to himself. Obi-Wan sat beside him, waiting patiently for his answer. Qui-Gon took some time to form it.

“I believe, if we do this, we are at best playing with fire,” he began slowly, “and at worst playing with your sanity, Obi-Wan. I’ve seen the worst of your flashbacks and it’s been hours, sometimes, before you’ve known where you are and what’s going on—”

“ _Iji aijinn_ , that’s an exaggeration, and you know it,” Obi-Wan said with an oddly gentle  fondness and just a slight wheedling tone.

“No, my love, it’s not. I wish it were, but it’s not, and you know that too,” Qui-Gon countered with the sharpness of fear in his tone. “For example, by both Bruck’s and Jicky’s accounts, it was more than three hours from the time you rushed off into the interrogation wing until you pulled yourself together and contacted the Council. Were you fully in control of yourself during that time?”

Obi-Wan looked away. “No,” he whispered.

Qui-Gon pinched the bridge of his nose again, then looked up and took Obi-Wan’s hand in his own. When his partner again met his own gaze he said, “I won’t, as you so eloquently put it, string you up,” he finished. “However, against my better judgement, I will put the manacles on you. We’ll see what happens after that. Where’s this practice room you’ve reserved?”

 

The room seemed smaller, and darker, and gloomier than Obi-Wan remembered, and it had been less than a half-hour since he’d last seen it. _Odd how mood affects one’s perceptions,_ he thought. The door shut behind him with an ominous click, the lock engaging equally ominously. One of Qui-Gon’s long, blunt fingers pressed a spot on the door’s touchpad—

—and half of his perceptions went dead as the Force shield came online. Normally just an unpleasant sensation, this time it induced the early stages of panic in Obi-Wan. His breathing quickened and a fine sweat broke out all over him. Qui-Gon turned to him in alarm. Cut off like him from the outside world, they were still able to sense each other in this room through their bond.

“It’s all right,” Obi-Wan said, making a visible and moderately successful effort to calm himself. His knees wobbled and he sank down on them.

“Did someone use a Force damper on you at some point during all this?” Qui-Gon inquired. “I don’t remember that being part of your report.”

Obi-Wan looked up at him with a wry smile. “I don’t think my report is an entirely reliable document, Qui. They may have done. I suspect there’s still a great deal I still don’t remember. On the other hand, it may just be my underlying anxiety.”

Qui-Gon nodded and set the tool bag down beside Obi-Wan and opened it so he could see the chains. “Hands in front of you or behind?”

“Be—behind, I think,” Obi-Wan replied, clearing his throat as his voice caught in it.

“All right then,” Qui-Gon directed. “Put them behind you.”

Obi-Wan did, slowly and with a reluctance he couldn’t hide, clenching his fists until his nails bit into his palms. Qui-Gon walked around behind him, knelt down, grasped one of his wrists, and snapped a cuff around it.

Obi-Wan froze at first, then a strong shudder went through him. “The other one—do it now, Qui,” he hissed. “Quickly!”

Another click and the full weight of the chains hung from his hands. Qui-Gon had chosen the shorter set and they did not allow his arms more than a little free movement, holding them at an awkward angle behind his back. They seemed to have much more weight than their mass suggested, pinning Obi-Wan in place. He pulled on them, just testing at first and then harder as his heart began to pound. “Don’t do this,” he heard himself say, as though from a distance. “Don’t, please. Don’t, don’t—”

Then someone snapped manacles around his ankles, shortening the chain somehow so it held his feet together, and he thrashed frantically and fell on his face. He couldn’t move—the weight—couldn’t get away, couldn’t, couldn’t breathe . . .

 

Obi-Wan froze when the first manacle closed on his wrist, then a strong shudder went through him. “The other one—do it now, Qui,” he hissed. “Quickly!”

The moment Qui-Gon closed the second manacle around Obi-Wan’s opposite wrist, the younger man went rigid, his eyes wide, his breath coming in short gasps.  “Don’t do this. Don’t, please. Don’t, don’t—” he whimpered, tugging at the chains so hard that it threw his balance off. He yanked himself out of Qui-Gon’s grip and toppled to the floor, where he lay thrashing, feet together as though they were bound, a look of absolute terror on his face.

The flashback happened so quickly that it caught Qui-Gon completely off guard, and he watched frozen with horror for a moment as Obi-Wan lay on the floor with his hands bound behind him, pleading. Then Qui-Gon lunged in and frantically removed the manacles and flung them across the room. Obi-Wan flinched away from him, whimpering, his breath short and labored, almost strangled. Though he was unbound now, he held himself as though he were tightly confined from shoulders to ankles, struggling against his invisible bonds, silent except for little desperate grunts of effort. It looked eerily like a convulsion. Qui-Gon was afraid he would hurt himself and knelt beside him, trying to still him with little success. All Qui-Gon could do was keep him from banging his head too hard on the floor.

Then, just as suddenly, Obi-Wan stopped his struggles and lay still on his side. Though his body was still held rigidly in a position of confinement, his head sagged into Qui-Gon’s hands and a grimace of utter despair distorted his features. Eyes squeezed tight, he let out a choked sob. A slow trickle of moisture worked its way from the corner of his eyes to drop slowly to Qui-Gon’s hands. Obi-Wan’s lips moved, soundlessly at first, and then in a low murmur that Qui-Gon could barely make out. Obi-Wan was apologizing.

“Qui, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t get free, I can’t get free, I can’t get free—”

The bond between them tasted of burnt metal and ash, reflecting the scorched earth in Obi-Wan’s mind. His previous flashbacks had been alarming, but this seemed something more. Even in the worst of his previous ones, Obi-Wan had never seemed so deeply enmeshed as he did in this one, and never so utterly terrified. Nor had Qui-Gon ever seen this almost seizure-like behavior. It frightened Qui-Gon to see him this way and he knew he had to quell his own fears before he could help Obi-Wan. But cut off from the Force in this little room, it was easier said than done.

Briefly, he considered shutting down the damping field but decided against it, not knowing what it would leave Jicky open to through the training bond she shared with Obi-Wan. Viciously, he shoved his own fear away and knelt beside Obi-Wan, who was still repeating, “I can’t get free, I can’t get free—”

“Hush, love,” Qui-Gon said tenderly, trying to call him back. “It’s all right. You _are_ free. There’s nothing holding you, no bindings, nothing on your wrists, no chains. Just my hands. Feel my hands, Obi-Wan. You’re here with me. It’s Qui-Gon and you’re here with me, _kosai_.” Gently, he stroked his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair, caressing his face, moving slowly down Obi-Wan’s arms until he reached his wrists. Qui-Gon tried to move them from behind Obi-Wan’s back, but his muscles were locked in that position, as was the rest of him. And his touch only made Obi-Wan tremble and gasp. Already, he was soaked in sweat and Qui-Gon was afraid he would hyperventilate. Carefully, Qui-Gon started to lift him, hoping to hold him, but that only tore a frantic shout of “No!” from him and made him thrash again. Instead, Qui-Gon lay down next to him on the cushioned floor, spooning against him and running a hand over his arm in long, slow, feather-light strokes, murmuring in his ear. Obi-Wan trembled and shivered and panted, lost in some hellish memory. Sick at heart, Qui-Gon pushed all his love through the bond and hoped it would eventually burn off the fog of terror in Obi-Wan’s mind.

* * *

 

The next Obi-Wan knew, he was lying curled up on the floor with his head on Qui-Gon’s shoulder, drenched in sweat and sick to his stomach. The manacles were gone, out of sight somewhere, and Qui-Gon was gently stroking his hair and his arm, cradling him tenderly. “It’s all right, _kosai_ ,” he heard in Qui-Gon’s deep, soothing rumble. “It’s all right, Obi-Wan. Feel the mat under you and my hands on you. You’re safe, love. No one is going to hurt you. You’re in temple now, in a practice room with me, with Qui-Gon. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Obi-Wan felt a wash of reassurance and love through the bond, tinged with regret, and took what felt like the first deep breath he’d had in days. It was like coming up from a deep dive with his lungs bursting. He reached up and rubbed his eyes, which were wet and still tearing, then shakily pushed himself up out of Qui-Gon’s embrace on one arm. Qui-Gon followed him, one hand sliding from his hair to his neck and down his back, then back up again in a warm, slow caress. Obi-Wan shivered under his touch but wanted it, wanted to crawl into Qui-Gon’s lap and curl up there.

“How bad was it?” he asked in a hoarse voice. His throat seemed raw.

“You don’t remember?” Qui-Gon asked him in a cautious tone. Obi-Wan shook his head, which was pounding. “Worse than I thought, then. It was very hard to reach you.”

“How long?” he asked, forcing himself onto his knees. His stomach cramped and he doubled over, folding one arm across it and supporting himself with the other, desperately swallowing his nausea. Qui-Gon eased him down again and into his arms, and pulled Obi-Wan against him.

“Shhhh,” he murmured against Obi-Wan’s ear. “Easy. It’s all right. It will pass. Just sit here for a moment. Give yourself time.”

“How long?” Obi-Wan said again, trying to breathe through the subsiding queasiness. It felt like he’d been retching for hours, though there was no evidence of it.

“Long enough, Little One,” Qui-Gon replied evasively. “Hush. Questions can wait. Just let yourself recover first. You’ve had a bad time of it.”

He let it go and leaned gratefully against Qui-Gon’s shoulder, sitting between the bigger man’s legs with his own draped over one of Qui-Gon’s. He folded his arms over his still-cramping stomach and closed his eyes. Qui-Gon’s arms went around him and held him but not in a confining way. The slow, steady thump of Qui-Gon’s heart in his ear soothed him, gradually infusing him with calm of his master’s reassuring presence.

Qui-Gon rubbed his bearded cheek against the top of Obi-Wan’s head, murmuring endearments and nonsense, and Obi-Wan let himself be lulled and soothed by it. He knew where he was now, and he knew he was safe. The adrenalin had washed out of his body, leaving him cold and shaky and sick. Eventually, Qui-Gon’s reassurances drained the tension from his muscles, leaving exhaustion behind. Qui-Gon seemed to sense that, and somehow got him on his feet again and into his cloak. “Shields, love,” Qui-Gon coaxed gently. “Get your shields up, _kosai_. For Jicky’s sake. I’m turning the field off.” He must have gotten them up sufficiently, because Qui-Gon then steered him down the hallway and through the temple to their quarters.

He heard Jicky start to greet him, then break off with a whispered “yes, Master.” Qui-Gon divested him of his cloak and boots and he staggered into the bedroom, where he was pushed gently down on the bed and relieved of the rest of his clothing. He crawled into bed gratefully, curled up, and fell into welcome oblivion.

 

He woke again, when Qui-Gon slipped into bed beside him and gathered him in, and once more in the night needing to relieve himself. He barely remembered stumbling to the fresher and back. The third time was to morning sunlight streaming in and Qui-Gon sitting beside him on the bed, fully clothed and holding a mug of tea.

“Four hours,” he said by way of greeting, looking rather worn himself. It took Obi-Wan a moment to realize Qui-Gon was answering his question from the night before. “And another two, all told, to get you calm enough to sleep, though you thrashed most of the night. It’s just as well you have no class to teach today. I imagine we’d have to cancel it, or have me take it for you.”

Gingerly, Obi-Wan sat up, his head still throbbing, and took the proffered mug. The contents were ambrosial and restorative. By the time he’d drunk half of it, he felt at least ready to converse intelligently, if still not entirely human.

“So the chains were the trigger.”

“Oh yes. I’d say so. And no wonder,” Qui-Gon agreed with a vehemence Obi-Wan didn’t understand.

Obi-Wan cocked a curious eyebrow at his master and felt something passing between them, as though an open window were letting in a breeze. Qui-Gon had dropped his shields and was reaching out to him. Obi-Wan did the same. Sunlight streamed in, into the room and into that metaphoric place where the Force existed in his body, and a small sigh escaped him. Qui-Gon smoothed a fall of hair out of his eyes and kissed his forehead, then drew him into his arms.  Obi-Wan went gladly, mug still in hand.

“From what I could tell,” Qui-Gon said quietly, his hands drifting comfortingly over Obi-Wan’s back, “they must have kept you more or less wrapped in chains from the time you arrived at that Agency hell-hole to the time when you were, as you said, ‘strung up.’ I think you must have tried to escape and since they had no other way of restraining you, they resorted to that rather primitive method until someone arrived with a Force damper. Even then, they may have left the chains on you, and I think they must have done so for several days, to weaken you.”

“So they must have known, already, that I was a Jedi, when they gave me to that woman.”

“I suspect she was sent in especially for you.”

Obi-Wan felt his heart sink. “Then we don’t know if there was a rendition program.”

“No, I think it’s obvious that it was already in place when you were shipped offworld. But I think once they learned who you were, probably during your escape attempt, they sent a special interrogator, probably a friend or colleague or even lover of the man you killed when you were a padawan.”

“For revenge.”

“For revenge,” Qui-Gon confirmed. “And in an odd way, I’m grateful to them for that.”

Obi-Wan sat back abruptly, sloshing tea. “What? Qui—they—what do you mean?” he sputtered.

“Otherwise, I think they might just have killed you outright when they discovered who you were. They couldn’t afford to have a Jedi reporting back to the Senate on their activities. But some senior person wanted you, and their need for revenge gave Bruck and Garen time to find you.”

Obi-Wan pondered this for a moment while Qui-Gon mopped up the tea he’d spilled. “You really can find a bright spot in almost anything, can’t you?” Obi-Wan observed wryly.

Qui-Gon sat down again and pressed one of Obi-Wan’s hands between his own. “I doubt I’d be able to find a bright spot in you being dead, love. I would have preferred you’d escaped with minimal injuries, but I’m happy you escaped at all. So, yes, I’m grateful that you were tortured, odd as that sounds. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking of.”

“Now I wonder why I didn’t remember this bit before,” Obi-Wan said frowning as he sipped at what was left of his tea.

Qui-Gon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t. I don’t wonder that you don’t remember this flashback, either. Given the option, I’d put it quite out of my mind as well.”

“Tell me,” Obi-Wan said quietly, and felt his heart begin to pound unaccountably.

Qui-Gon looked distinctly like he’d rather not, but plunged on, regardless. “The moment I’d bound your wrists, you were somewhere else and overwhelmed with panic. I’ve never seen you like this, even at your worst moments, even as a padawan. It was quite a shock. You acted as though you were being smothered or crushed—”

And it did come back to him then, violently, as though a door had been kicked open: the weight of the chains wrapped bruisingly around his naked body, so tightly he could barely draw a breath, cutting into his limbs and his flesh, crushing him. Already-broken ribs shifted agonizingly beneath the pressure as he thrashed, trying to loosen his bindings. But there was no give in the durasteel and he couldn’t breathe—

Someone shook him, called his name. “Obi-Wan!” Large hands cupped his face, held him still. “You’re not there. Breathe! Take a deep breath.”

Qui-Gon’s voice. Yes, he could breathe. He inhaled noisily, held it a moment and let it out, did it again, and again, focusing on the touch of Qui-Gon’s palms, those big hands cupping his face, until he knew where he was and could anchor himself there.

“They talked about dropping me in a foundation somewhere, pouring duracrete over me,” he whispered. “All I could think was that you’d never know what had happened to me. That no one would know what had happened to me.”

Qui-Gon held him again, stroking his back while he shivered. “You were right: they left me like that for a long time, Qui,” he went on. “Days, probably. Without food or water or letting me loose to relieve myself, in a dark room, in silence. It was like being buried alive already. I was hardly conscious—hardly sane, I think—by the time _she_ arrived.” He was, he realized, quite thoroughly and deliberately broken at that point, as Ren had been during his captivity. “By the time they unwound me, I couldn’t have fought them even if there hadn’t been a Force damper. She brought that, I think.” Illegal as they were for everyone but the Jedi, it surprised neither knight nor master that the Agency had them. “And then she just toyed with me. All that ‘who are you?’ was just a game to her. She already knew very well who I was.”

Qui-Gon let go of a sharp little exhale. Obi-Wan knew if he looked up, he’d find the man’s brows drawn down in pain from imagining what he was hearing. “That explains why I couldn’t reach you for so long. You just lay there shivering, even after I took the manacles off your wrists. You’d gone so cold and stiff that it was like handling a corpse.”

“I nearly was one,” Obi-Wan reflected, “by the time she got to me.”

From the other room came the quiet chime of the door. Qui-Gon carefully extricated himself and got up to answer it. “That will be Tianna.”

“You told her—” Obi-Wan began, half accusing, half incredulous.

“Yes, I did,” Qui-Gon replied unapologetically. “I should have told her what you were planning before we did this. I should never have consented to it to begin with.”

A hot reply formed itself on Obi-Wan’s tongue and died there as he saw the moisture glittering in Qui-Gon’s eyes. He looked away then, ashamed, and Qui-Gon hesitated a moment as though wanting to say more, and then went to answer the door. Obi-Wan drank the rest of his tea, turned bitter in his mouth now, and set the cup aside.

He endured the low-voiced conference in the other room and settled back against the headboard to wait for the chewing out he was sure was coming. Surprisingly, Tianna came in alone, bringing both of them tea. She perched on the edge of his bed and handed him a fresh cup.

“So, do you want to explain what you thought you were doing?” she asked in a neutral tone.

“Testing an hypothesis,” he answered. It sounded so foolish now.

“I see. Qui-Gon said you were looking for triggers?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I was thinking about what had set Ren off, and what had set me off on that mission. It’s the being blind-sided, not knowing when I might go off, that I can’t take, Ti. Watching Ren the other day . . . it’s as horrifying from the outside as it is from the inside, that loss of control.”

“Ah. You’ve made that connection then.”

“Took me long enough, but yes, finally.”

“Tell me about the new memories,” she said quietly, and took a sip of tea.

Obi-Wan curled his hands around his own cup, letting the warmth seep into hands that had gone cold. As the memory spilled from him again, the cold crept through him, until he was shivering. Tianna took the cup from his hands and set it beside the bed with her own. More of what had happened seemed to come back with this retelling: delirious hours of suffocating in silence and thirst and hunger and darkness and his own filth, his body gone numb until he felt he was hovering somewhere above it, wondering if he were slipping gently into the Force. Then even that sense had been violently stripped from him with the Force damper.

When his teeth started to chatter, Tianna pulled the quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, but he shrugged it off only a moment later; he couldn’t bear its confines. He hugged himself instead, still shivering. He wanted to stop, but the words were coming out in a torrent now: the agonizing constriction, the helplessness, the fear of being buried alive, the inability to free himself, the isolation of being cut off from the Force, his lost sense of time, of wholeness, of himself—

And suddenly he was sobbing, in a way he never had before, not during all he’d been through, not during or after all the horrors he’d ever faced, only because he didn’t know who he was now, any more than Ren did. Something in him broke open and all his fears long buried or resolved came rushing back. He’d failed in that mission. Failed to hold himself together well enough to escape as a real Jedi would have, and failed again now by losing control of himself in the field, endangering two other Jedi, one his own padawan, the other his closest friend. Worst of all, he had failed his master and the man he loved. His previous accomplishments meant nothing. They had been a sham. All of it poured out of him, the things he could never say to Qui-Gon or even Bruck, the fears that reduced him to the sniveling wreck he was now.

“That’s it?” Tianna said. “You failed?”

“I gave up!” he shouted, half-blinded with tears, nose running freely. “I gave up! I quit fighting. I gave up. . . .” Obi-Wan hugged his knees and hid his face in them in choking humiliation. He wasn’t dressed yet and he’d seldom felt so naked or so raw in front of anyone.

He huddled in bed while Tianna listened, like a rock in his raging river, without judgement or anger or denial. She took it all, contained it, and put it away. When Obi-Wan had run out of both words and tears, she held him until he pushed himself out of her arms and leaned back, wiping his eyes.

“So you gave up,” Tianna said quietly when he sat panting and wrung out beside her. “Then what?”

A long silence settled over the room as the answer to Tianna’s question burned on his tongue. He wanted to say it but he couldn’t. He wanted to get this over with, make this final confession, but something in him wouldn’t let go. But if the Jedi in general learn to be patient creatures, there is nothing so patient as a Jedi mind-healer. Tianna let the silence bloom and grow, waiting as Obi-Wan fidgeted, until the words hissed out of him like air from a puncture. “I didn’t die,” he whispered.

There was only the tiniest of sighs from Tianna to give away her own feelings, but whether it was relief or sorrow or something else, he didn’t know. “When they, when they threw me back in that cell, I thought, ‘Good. I’ll die here and it will be over.’”

“But Bruck and Garen found you.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “It didn’t end. It just changed.”

“How did it change, Ow?”

“You know,” he said, his voice sounding flat and hollow in his own ears.

“Tell me.”

“I’m like this now. I’m not the man I was.” He looked up at her, eyes tearing again. “I’m afraid all the time, Ti. I’m still afraid. I can leave my quarters, and function, mostly, but I’m afraid all the time. I’m afraid in the field. It doesn’t show, most of the time, but I am.”

“Of what?”

“Of making the wrong decisions—”

“No,” Ti said, shaking her head. “That’s not what you’re afraid of. You know it’s not. That’s too cerebral. What’s your gut tell you?”

This time, there was nothing on his tongue waiting to burn its way out of him. “I don’t know,” he said at last, wiping his eyes again and blowing his nose. “I don’t know, Ti.”

Tianna pressed her lips into a thin line and frowned at him. “I’ve watched you in the salles, you know, since you went back to sparring,” she said. “And I asked the Saber Master to watch you, too. She tells me your technique is as elegant as ever but that you don’t press your opponents, even when you have an advantage. You concentrate on defense. She rarely sees you in the air anymore. You were famous for aerials, Ow. When was the last time you got on the rings? Or the bars? I know your hands are strong enough for it now. And have been.”

Obi-Wan blinked stupidly at her. “Are you saying I’m afraid of taking risks?”

“No, that’s only part of what you’re afraid of. I think you’re afraid of what the risks might result in.”

“Which is?”

“You tell me.”

What was he afraid of, if not the risks themselves? It was true he was hesitant. Gun-shy, really. He recognized that in himself, and loathed it: his indecision, the lack of confidence in his own abilities. He’d been foolish to blithely walk into the original mission, thinking he could handle it, but what he should have gained in prudence from that experience had become, instead, over-caution. Fear.

And no wonder. It was not only the first time he’d been a prisoner without having a sense of his own ability to free himself, but one of his favorite sexual fantasies that involved ceding control had been made all too horribly real. This had not been like being tied to the bedposts by his lovers. He had not been calling the shots or setting the limits.

He blinked, discovered he’d been staring blindly at his hands and that they were clenched so tightly in his lap that he’d dug his nails into his palms again. He opened them, flexed the fingers, and felt the residual ache and tingle that was sometimes there now, when the weather changed or after he’d been sparring hard. Ti was right: he hadn’t been on the rings or the bars since he’d been injured. His hands were strong enough, but they hurt too—

“The pain. I’m afraid . . . of being hurt again?” he blurted, sounding incredulous even to himself. The irony was too awful.

Tianna gave him a faint smile, as if to say, s _ee how simple that was?_   “You know, ordinarily I’d have highly disapproved of what you asked Qui-Gon to do, but I think in your case, it actually did some good. It’s a more drastic technique than I like, but I think you’ve made some important progress, Ow.”

“Gods, what a lot of word-vomit that was,” he muttered, “for that simple a revelation.”

“Sometimes a good purge is just what’s needed,” Tianna agreed. “How do those things you said look, now that they’re not rattling around in the dark, scary void of your head?”

He ought to feel ashamed, he thought with a detached curiosity, taking a tissue from Tianna. But he didn’t. He felt . . . emptied. Scoured out and cleansed. And exhausted. He was still panting as though he’d run flat out for hours.

Obi-Wan sat for a time, searching his feelings. There was, in them, a kind of calm he hadn’t known for quite some time, a sense of having let the light into places that hadn’t seen it in years. The fears that had inhabited those dark spaces seemed to shrivel in the light. Something in the core of him knew most of them were old fears, childish ones he’d already put behind him. But there was still the fundamental question of how his experiences had changed him, and who he was now. If it was true that he was afraid of being hurt again, and his gut feelings told him it was, he had no idea what to do about it.

“Yes?” Tianna prompted him.

“Calmer. A little more—grounded, perhaps. I think I understand now why you wanted me to work with a group. More than I did before.”

“Why?” Tianna said curiously.

“Jedi are hardwired to help people, but it’s always a two-way street, isn’t it? Being in the group made it easier to see what I need to get better when I can see it in someone else.”

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “Sometimes it’s just therapeutic to share your story. To know you’re not alone.”

He turned a very direct gaze on her. “What now, Ti? How do I fix this?”

“Slow down, will you?” she admonished, laughing. “You’re the hardest working nutter I’ve ever tried to fix, Ow. Take a breather. Sit with this for a few days and absorb it. Observe your own mind and actions and see if this feels right to you. And next time you get a bright idea like this, please consult me first, will you? I’d rather not have to start all over again with you. I’ve given Master Jinn a good talking to already about letting you wheedle him into ‘experiments’ without checking with me. I don’t think you’ll find him so cooperative next time.”

Obi-Wan nodded contritely and looked away. Tianna leaned in and kissed his forehead. “See you in a couple of days, Ow. The usual time. I’ll show myself out.”

When Tianna was gone, Qui-Gon appeared in the doorway as Obi-Wan threw back the covers.  Still a little shaky, Obi-Wan got to his feet and padded over to his lover. The big man opened his arms and Obi-Wan slipped into them, wrapping his own tightly around Qui-Gon’s back, laying his palms flat against the warm and comforting solidity. Qui-Gon kissed his temple and closed Obi-Wan in a tentative embrace, as though the smaller man were made of friable glass.

“I’m sorry, Qui. You and Tianna were right: I should never have asked this of you. It was foolish. And I know it hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“It was—I was—” Qui-Gon stopped himself, his arms tightening a little around Obi-Wan then loosening again to just encircle him.

Obi-Wan leaned back and looked up into Qui-Gon’s face, then reached up and smoothed a thumb over the web of lines beside one deep blue eye. “What?” he asked.

There was the barest moment of hesitation in Qui-Gon’s voice before he said, “I was afraid that you might not come back. That you would stay lost in there, in your own mind.” He pulled Obi-Wan to him again and held the smaller man’s head against his shoulder, sinking long, blunt fingers into Obi-Wan’s hair with a fierce yet gentle protectiveness.

“Qui, it’s all right,” he said. “I’m not—I’m not that fragile. Really.”

“Why didn’t I know that this was happening to you?” Qui-Gon growled. “That woman must have taken the Force damper off of you at some point because I could feel what she’d done to your hands, but why couldn’t I tell something was wrong before that?”

“I don’t know, Qui, unless I was shielding so heavily myself, without realizing it. Maybe I was. Maybe the damper went on before then. I don’t know. By the time she started on my hands she didn’t need it anymore, or thought she didn’t. Maybe she thought it would hurt you, too. I don’t know what I told her about us. Maybe she knew we were bonded, or maybe she didn’t care. None of it’s very clear in my mind. I doubt it ever will be.”

“Just as well, probably.”

“No, I want to know. I want to _remember_.” Obi-Wan was startled by the vehemence in his own voice. “It’s part of my life. It’s _mine_. She can’t have it. She can’t have any part of me,” he snarled, suddenly angry.

Qui-Gon suddenly went very still and very blank through the bond, though not before he caught a bright flare of heat through it. Obi-Wan pushed himself from Qui-Gon’s arms and looked up. “What?” he demanded, still filled with fury.

An electric moment passed between them, something Obi-Wan couldn’t define but which left him oddly excited. Then Qui-Gon’s mouth came down on his with a sudden ferocity that made Obi-Wan’s heart stutter and skip, though he wasn’t sure whether it was panic or arousal for a moment. That question resolved itself quickly as Obi-Wan felt his cock stir with decided interest. He returned the kiss in kind, felt Qui-Gon pushing him backward toward the bed and didn’t fight it. He ended up leaning against it with Qui-Gon’s hands roaming restlessly across his back, their mouths locked together. Obi-Wan heard himself making smothered, mewling groans in his throat with Qui-Gon’s tongue filling his mouth.

Suddenly, Qui-Gon tipped him backwards onto the bed and bent to lift his ankles in one swift movement, leaving him with his legs up in the air, exposed and vulnerable. The surprise and speed of the movement left him shocked and gasping, even as Qui-Gon pushed his legs back against his chest and bent over him to continue their kiss. Obi-Wan found himself pressed into the bed with Qui-Gon’s weight, his mouth taken captive and filled, bent in half. Torn between feeling trapped and aroused, he pushed half-heartedly against the solid body above him, which seemed only to fuel Qui-Gon’s hunger.

He broke their kiss at last, only to growl into Obi-Wan’s ear: “You’re so beautiful when you struggle. Imagining you in those chains, naked and thrashing—” And his mouth closed once again on Obi-Wan’s.

The words sent a spike of fear through him, and an equal spike of arousal, momentarily paralyzing him. He gasped beneath Qui-Gon’s kiss, his eyes gone wide, as the big man continued to ravage his mouth. Then he realized Qui-Gon was fumbling one-handedly with the fastenings of his pants while the other hand had worked its way into Obi-Wan’s hair and fisted there, holding him down. He was trapped.

Obi-Wan struggled in earnest then, just as Qui-Gon had defeated his own clothing. Qui-Gon’s cock sprang up between them, gliding across Obi-Wan’s balls alongside his own cock, the sensation of skin on skin making him shudder, though he was still gasping in panic. Qui-Gon coated a finger with saliva and pushed it inside in another quick, unexpected movement, finding Obi-Wan’s prostate unerringly and sending a blinding electric charge up his spine. Obi-Wan moaned and bucked against him helplessly, head thrown back against the mattress as that blunt finger found him again and again, sending shudder after shudder through him, robbing him of volition and strength. He was startled to find his own hands had gone to grasp his knees, holding himself open even as he half-fought what was happening.

Qui-Gon still held him down by his hair and was again ravaging his mouth, and abruptly there were two fingers inside him, one dry and rasping. His muscles spasmed around the larger girth and then began to loosen as the fingers worked in and out across his prostate. He knew they were rubbing him raw, that this would hurt later, but for now . . . for now he was lightheaded, his heart pounding, his limbs watery and shaking with both fear and excitement. He wanted to get free, he wanted to stay. He wanted Qui-Gon to let him go, he wanted Qui-Gon to fuck him. He wanted . . . he wanted Qui-Gon to . . . he didn’t know what he wanted except more of something, and none of it at the same time.

Then the fingers were gone and Qui-Gon was pushing inside him, hard and dry and huge and oh gods it hurt! It burned and rasped and felt as though he were being torn apart. “Now! Now! Now!” he heard himself shriek. (Or was it _No! No! No!_? He wasn’t sure.) and Qui-Gon pushed inside, hard, pulled out, and shoved in again, over his prostate, in and out in a brutal rhythm that Obi-Wan struggled against, struggled with, and finally made his own, until both of them went up in an explosive orgasm that left Obi-Wan shuddering and weeping again and Qui-Gon gasping beside him.

He felt Qui-Gon’s fingertips on his cheek, tracing the tears, but it was as though it were someone else being touched, some other person who enjoyed what had happened here. Warm lips and a bristly mustache and beard pressed against his temple, his cheek, and he found the sensation suddenly abhorrent. He pushed himself away, rolled from the bed and stood up.

Qui-Gon, improbably, merely propped himself up on his elbow and watched, offering nothing: not reassurance, apology, tenderness, explanation—nothing. They stared at one another for a moment, Qui-Gon’s eyes hooded, his expression blank and empty though he was still breathing heavily. The smell of sex was thick in the air. Obi-Wan turned on his heel and went into the fresher, locking the door behind himself.

 

Qui-Gon lay back on the bed to catch his breath, and stared up at the ceiling. The bond was still wide open between them, filled with the taste of spiced tea and, faintly beneath it, of burnt metal, as it had been throughout their coupling. Obi-Wan had responded to him with much of his previous enthusiasm for rough sex but with a tinge of confusion and fear as well. Now, it was the confusion that was foremost as Obi-Wan stepped into the stream of water in their fresher behind a firmly locked door.

Qui-Gon cleaned up and tucked himself back in, then sat up. He scrubbed at his face, reviewing what had happened between them here. It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that he had inexplicably let his own desires run away with him. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Obi-Wan that the flashback had frightened him badly. It had easily been the worst he’d witnessed, almost a fugue state, Obi-Wan rigid and unresponsive for hours no matter what Qui-Gon had done. The relief at seeing sanity and awareness in his lover’s eyes again had been almost overwhelming.

But Obi-Wan’s description of the event itself . . . that he had found terribly—and terrifyingly—arousing. They had only begun to explore Obi-Wan’s enjoyment of pain together before he had come home injured and broken from that nightmare mission, but in that short time Qui-Gon had found a surprising propensity in himself for giving Obi-Wan what he wanted. It was a disturbing discovery. In his long field career he had often interrogated prisoners, but like Bruck, preferred intimidation and psychological manipulation to torture, which he was convinced accomplished nothing. Injuring others had never given Qui-Gon any kind of pleasure, least of all sexual.

With Obi-Wan, though, there were other elements and conditions that did make it deeply enjoyable and arousing. There was skill involved, certainly, and a sense of mastery in several different meanings of the word. But there was also the pleasure of Obi-Wan’s vulnerability, of seeing it, making the space for it, invoking it, and of the trust it implied. As Jedi, they were seldom allowed the luxury of true vulnerability, or even of its appearance. Even when injured they were expected to show nothing if at all possible, and with the Force, nearly all things were. And Obi-Wan, from the very beginning, had been one of the most controlled people Qui-Gon had ever known. There were hidden depths in his padawan that Qui-Gon had not discovered for years, in part because of his own coolness but in large part because Obi-Wan was himself so self-contained. That characteristic had contributed to the state he was in now.

But there was also the fact that Qui-Gon had been the master of himself and others for so long that it had become the dominant part of his personality—again in every meaning of the word. It had always been part of him, that need to push limits, to test boundaries, and at the same time carefully set them for himself and others. He enjoyed the tension of finding the correct tipping points, whether in negotiations or in sex. It was a form of manipulation and he was good at it.

Obi-Wan let him indulge it, indeed, encouraged it. But that was not the only reason he found it pleasurable. When he had told Obi-Wan he was beautiful when he struggled, that had also been true, and far closer to the crux of the matter. There was an unconscious grace and beauty in Obi-Wan when he let himself go, whether into the flow of the Force or into the depths of his own passion—or into those moments of ecstatic agony. The moment of orgasm where Obi-Wan’s eyes often flew open in astonishment—his head tipped back, that lush and clever mouth slackened and emptied of speech, everything about him open and unguarded—gave Qui-Gon a sense of power and triumph that he never experienced anywhere else. There had always been something haughty in Obi-Wan’s reserve and Qui-Gon had found he took an almost perverse pleasure in stripping that reserve away, taking Obi-Wan out of himself and revealing the bright flame and the vulnerability beneath. Pain was the surest and quickest way to do so. And Obi-Wan liked pain.

Or had.

But it had been Qui-Gon’s own fear of losing Obi-Wan, of what he had with Obi-Wan, that had provoked this more immediate action and perhaps pushed his partner farther than he was yet ready to go. Qui-Gon had lost the sense of where the tipping point was with his lover.

The sound of running water ceased in the fresher and Qui-Gon waited while imagining Obi-Wan  drying off and finishing his ablutions. The younger man came out again with a towel around his waist, brow creased in a thunderous frown, eyebrows arched in a way that turned Qui-Gon’s insides to jelly. Qui-Gon reached to touch him as he went by but Obi-Wan shrugged him off and began pulling clothing from their chest and closet. He watched Obi-Wan dress, both of them silent. Obi-Wan had muted the bond while in the fresher and now it was open only on Qui-Gon’s end, but he had known this man so long that it was easy to see the other signs of uncertainty and tension.

“Perhaps I owe you an apology, Obi-Wan,” he said at last in a quiet voice.

Obi-Wan stopped what he was doing, which was tying his sash, and looked up at Qui-Gon, his face perfectly composed and blank. “Do you?” There it was, that haughty self-containment.

Qui-Gon felt his heart constrict. “If you feel I do,” he began, “I willingly take responsibility—”

“You’re not responsible for my emotions, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan replied coolly, interrupting him.

“No, but I am responsible for my actions that may give rise to them,” Qui-Gon countered, before Obi-Wan could add anything else.

The younger man said nothing, but met his gaze for a moment then looked away and finished tying his sash. He buckled the belt on top of it and padded past Qui-Gon again and into the common room, muttering, “I must meet Jicky in the salles. I’ll see you at last meal.”

Qui-Gon nodded, conceding defeat.

* * *

 

They ate that evening in the refectory, surrounded by other Jedi and their own silence. Jicky, sensing the tension between them and finding it extremely uncomfortable, wolfed her food and asked to be excused almost immediately after finishing, and headed to a friend’s quarters to do her homework. Obi-Wan told her to be back by curfew and let her go. He and Qui-Gon finished their meal without speaking.

Afterwards, Obi-Wan took himself off to the library, ostensibly to put together his class for the following day, but Qui-Gon suspected it was merely to escape their quarters. He was still not back when Jicky returned, so Qui-Gon checked her homework and sent her off to bed. When Obi-Wan had not returned by the time Qui-Gon usually retired, he did so anyway, only to wake in the night to an empty bed. Wrapping himself in his robe, he padded into the common room.

Obi-Wan lay curled beneath a throw on the sofa, still clothed, datapad on the table beside him. Qui-Gon looked down at his face limned in the faint light of Coruscant’s luminescent night, contemplating the frown that left shadows on Obi-Wan’s features. He swallowed heavily and went back to bed.

The sofa was unoccupied when Qui-Gon rose the next morning.

He didn’t see Obi-Wan again until evening, when he returned from the salles with Jicky, limping and cradling one arm. Jicky maintained a discreet but loaded silence as she helped him pull his boots off while he propped himself against the wall, watched him settle gingerly onto the sofa, and then turned for the kitchen. She cast a meaningful look in Qui-Gon’s direction as she went by.

Qui-Gon sat in the chair opposite as Obi-Wan slowly hoisted his feet up on to the table and leaned back, cradling his left arm. “All right?” he asked. The bond was muted between them and Qui-Gon could feel nothing of Obi-Wan’s discomfort.

Obi-Wan nodded. “I fell off the rings. Landed badly. Bruised my shoulder and hip.”

“Nothing broken?”

“No. Aside from my dignity,” he scowled.

Qui-Gon suppressed a smile. “You’re out of practice.”

“Astute observation,” came the sarcastic reply.

Qui-Gon got to his feet again. “I’ll get us some dinner.”

“Qui—wait,” Obi-Wan looked up at him, the frown that had been his constant expression for the past day deeper now. “We need to talk.”

The older Jedi sat again. “Yes, I believe we do,” he replied mildly.

“Not right now, though. Later, when—”

“When the padawan’s gone to bed,” Jicky called from the kitchen.

Obi-Wan smiled a little sheepishly. “Not much gets by her.”

“No,” Qui-Gon agreed, mirroring the smile he was glad to see. “Not much got by her master, either. Do you need some ice?”

“Got it covered, Master,” Jicky said, coming up behind him with two slushy ice packs from the cold box. She knelt on the sofa and slipped one behind Obi-Wan’s shoulder as he leaned forward and tucked the other against his hip while Qui-Gon watched with amusement.

“Thank you, Padawan,” Obi-Wan told her with genuine gratitude, obviously trying his best not to be surly with her, despite the pain he was in.

“You’re welcome, Master,” she chirped and scooted back off the sofa. “Now if you and Master Jinn fix whatever’s wrong with you two, we can go back to normal.”

“Or what passes for it, here,” Qui-Gon quipped.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes.

 

They did indeed wait until Jicky had gone to bed before Obi-Wan broached the subject on both their minds. Obi-Wan limped back from seeing Jicky into bed, then lowered himself carefully onto the sofa beside Qui-Gon and blew out a heavy breath.

“Shall I get you a couple of heat packs now?” Qui-Gon inquired.

Obi-Wan rotated his shoulder slowly and winced. “That might be a good idea,” he agreed.

Qui-Gon mirrored Jicky’s earlier actions with the cold packs and watched Obi-Wan settle back against them with a soft sigh. Qui-Gon sat beside him as he lifted his feet onto the table once more and the bond gently widened between them for the first time in more than a day.

“Now,” Obi-Wan began, “can you explain to me what happened yesterday?”

“I’m . . . not sure myself,” Qui-Gon said simply. Obi-Wan looked at him sidelong, raising an eyebrow. Qui-Gon, in shame, looked away. “I . . . I thought you wanted—”

“I did,” Obi-Wan interrupted bluntly. “And I didn’t. But not quite in equal measure. And I don’t understand what set you off.”

Qui-Gon stifled the urge to sigh, though whether with relief or frustration he wasn’t sure himself. “So many things,” he said. “So many things about you ‘set me off,’ as you put it. More than I ever realized,” he began slowly. He folded his hands in his lap to keep from fidgeting, the serene Jedi Master he usually was nowhere to be seen, something he was painfully aware of himself. “The last thing I expected to find when I took you as a padawan was a life partner, Obi-Wan. And I would never have guessed I would find one so capable of revealing so much about me to myself.”

Obi-Wan continued to watch him with a cautious expression. “Go on,” he said.

“I said I was afraid of losing you into that flashback,” Qui-Gon continued, every word feeling as though it were being extracted from him with hot pincers. “I realize now I was also afraid of losing what we, losing—of finding the road we had started down was a dead end,” he stammered.

“You mean the caning? The scenes we’d—”

“Yes.”

Obi-Wan made a small noise of surprise. “I wasn’t even sure you really liked—oh. I see. Well, that is a little surprising.”

Qui-Gon let out a half-bitter laugh. “No more than it is to me. I never guessed that the thought of you in chains would be almost unbearable in more ways than one,” Qui-Gon confessed. “Then you were so adamant about not letting her take anything from you . . . so fierce . . .”

“I see,” Obi-Wan repeated quietly, and then nothing more. Qui-Gon waited in the silence until he could bear it no longer.

“If I’ve pushed you too far, or too quickly—”

Obi-Wan lay a hand on his thigh and squeezed a little, then left it there. “I don’t know that you did, Qui. My feeling are very unclear right now to me. I thought for a long time I would never want this again, never want you to hurt me or dominate me. I’m not so certain now. I think perhaps your timing could have been better—or perhaps not. I don’t know. I know my first instinct was to run, to shut you out; I’m sorry—”

“—No, there’s nothing—”

“—Let me finish, please,” Obi-Wan interrupted, sounding like the negotiator Qui-Gon himself had taught.  “I’m sorry I shut you out,” he repeated, “I was just . . . afraid. And I shouldn’t have been. I trust you more than anyone else I know, Qui.”

And that hurt Qui-Gon more than anything else Obi-Wan could have said, for reasons he was unable to reveal and did not want to think about. Obi-Wan, fortunately, mistook the reason for his distress.

“I don’t want you to feel guilty, Qui. Please. The problem is mine, not yours. I can’t go back to being who I was. I know that. But my memories aren’t the only thing that woman’s taken from me. She took a piece of who I was, too. I think you’re probably the only person who can help me find it again.”

It was Qui-Gon’s turn to be silent, pondering Obi-Wan’s words. After a time he said, “Is that what you were doing on the rings this afternoon? You haven’t been on them in some time.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Ti pointed that out to me. I hadn’t realized it had been so long—or why.”

“I wondered when you would.”

“Why didn’t you say something, Qui?” There was no accusation in Obi-Wan’s voice, only curiosity.

“What Tianna can say to you and what I can say to you are two different things, even now,” Qui-Gon observed.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Obi-Wan replied. He took one of Qui-Gon’s hands from his lap and threaded their fingers together. “And equally true in reverse,” he added softly.

“Sometimes,” Qui-Gon agreed.

The silence that fell between them then was a charged one, filled with potentiality. Qui-Gon had a sense of being very close to a line he knew he should not cross, one only Obi-Wan could reach over to draw him past. He waited, patiently on the outside, quelling both dread and anticipation on the inside. Obi-Wan’s hand closed almost convulsively on his own at last, jolting his heart.

“I told Tianna that I gave up,” Obi-Wan said in a low voice that sounded little like him. “But that wasn’t all of it.”

Obi-Wan stopped there, and Qui-Gon waited, again with a sense of both dread and anticipation. The bond wavered oddly between them, the taste of burnt metal filtering back into it, a taint like threads of blood in water. He sensed Obi-Wan fighting his own impulse to draw away and curl into himself. Mindful of his injured shoulder, Qui-Gon gently pulled Obi-Wan against him and pressed his lips to Obi-Wan’s temple.

He heard a small sigh and Obi-Wan went on. “It was more than that. I wanted to die. I think . . . I think if I’d had the means, Qui, I would have killed myself.”

“I’m not surprised,” Qui-Gon murmured, brushing his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair.

Obi-Wan snorted. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be. You or Ti either. Old souls both of you.”

“I’m just old, Obi-Wan. But Tianna genuinely is an old soul. I don’t believe anything surprises her.”

“No, I don’t suppose it does,” Obi-Wan agreed.

They sat in silence for a time, Qui-Gon’s fingers stroking through Obi-Wan’s fine, soft hair. He could feel the tension building again instead of easing, and wondered why. “Are you ashamed? Is that what’s wrong?” he asked gently.

Obi-Wan sighed, some of the tension leaking out with it. “Ashamed. Afraid. Angry. All those things I shouldn’t be.”

“And hard on yourself, as always.” Obi-Wan started to sit up, but Qui-Gon held him a little tighter and he subsided. “No, no protests. No denials. You’ve always been hard on yourself, Padawan. You were in an impossible situation, badly injured, in agony and shock, unsure of your hope of rescue. Of course you wanted to die. But there’s another way to look at it, love, and that is to recognize it as a way of foiling her. I suspect some part of you knew that. Sometimes death is a way out. Sometimes it’s a way of overcoming, of gaining an indirect victory, depriving the enemy. And there’s no shame in reaching your limits and taking that option. That’s not failure. It might be a kind of defeat, but it’s not failure.”

More silence, while Obi-Wan absorbed and considered his words. It went on a long time, Obi-Wan half lying against him, the top of his head pressed against the side of Qui-Gon’s jaw, one of Qui-Gon’s hands interlaced with Obi-Wan’s over the younger man’s belly, the other sifting his hair.

“Do you remember dying, Qui?” Obi-Wan asked him suddenly.

“Very clearly. And I remember you calling me back.”

“Was it a hard choice?”

“Yes. But I don’t regret the one I made.” _Not for a single moment_ , he thought.

Obi-Wan nodded against his shoulder then went still and silent again, but he was more relaxed now, the taste of burnt metal fading slowly from the bond.

“I fell off the rings because I froze,” he said after a while. “I lost my grip and couldn’t make a commitment to either the fall or the attempt to save myself, so I landed like a sack of tubers.”

“Not a good thing,” Qui-Gon observed.

“No. I need to learn how to fall again, to not be afraid of it. I think I’ll talk to Master Muk tomorrow, schedule some time with him when these bruises heal up a bit. He’ll be happy to throw me about, I’m sure.”

“I imagine Jicky will find it quite amusing—pardon me—instructive to watch as well.”

Obi-Wan sighed, managing somehow to give it an air of sacrifice. “The things we do for our padawans.”

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon agreed and kissed his temple again.

* * *

 

Some nights later, Qui-Gon came home from class to find Obi-Wan kneeling in his favorite meditation spot on their balcony with the set of durasteel manacles loosely closed on his wrists. He was shivering like a wet massif in a cold wind and the bond was tightly closed between them. Qui-Gon watched him for a few minutes trying to detect any other signs of distress, then knelt beside him. He touched Obi-Wan’s hand, startling him out of whatever state he was in with a jolt and gasp. Obi-Wan’s eyes flew open and he flinched from Qui-Gon’s touch, but not as wildly as he might have, and there was sanity and awareness in his eyes when he looked over at Qui-Gon.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to startle you. You were shivering. I thought perhaps you were cold.”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then shook off the manacles. They thudded and clanked to the floor in front of his knees. “No, not cold. Precisely,” he said, looking at them as though there were something slimy.

“Desensitizing yourself?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Attempting to. Ti suggested I try this, in meditation. I tried just holding them, at first. Then worked my way up to this. It’s not . . . this stage isn’t going so well.”

“Can I help?”

“Not . . . not yet,” the younger man said slowly. “Eventually, yes. But not yet.”

Qui-Gon leaned over and kissed his temple, which was damp with sweat. “Whenever you need me, I’ll be here,” he said.

* * *

 

Days passed, flowing by in the calm routine of classes, workouts, sparring, and a relaxed domesticity that eventually soothed Obi-Wan’s nerves into a state hovering on boredom. For a while, he came home bruised every other day from sessions with the Combat Master, until he began to remember how to fall. Bruck, in between missions, got into the act as well, teaching him new moves and routinely wiping the floor with him, until the day he didn’t. That day, Bruck tapped out of the chokehold Obi-Wan put him in with a huge grin on his face, happy to be beaten.

At that point, Obi-Wan took himself back to the rings and bars again and eventually to the arial obstacle course, which consisted of a climbing wall and narrow, suspended walkways and struts and beams that gave way unexpectedly under one’s weight, either sending one to the floor meters below or into a momentum- and Force-assisted tumble for the next handhold. He sparred with Qui-Gon and others there, and fell, this time landing gracefully, or instead launching himself into a flip or handspring that seemed completely impossible and would have been without the Force.

And each night, he sat shivering with the chains in his hands or around his wrists, bearing it for a little longer in minute increments. He tipped himself into another flashback more than once, but with Qui-Gon’s help, fought back out of it each time more quickly than before, and with less aftereffect. Still, it was draining work and he slept hard at night, wrapped in Qui-Gon’s arms.

He used the time to work with his padawan as well, slowly bringing her to the level in sparring that he thought she should be at. She was never going to like it, he decided, but he was not about to let her dislikes kill her in the field. He’d thought at first that her slightness would be a problem to be overcome, but came to see that she was slowly developing a style all her own, based on feints and speed and her ability to get under others reach, rather than around or above it. She actually did better against bigger opponents like Qui-Gon than ones her own size.

“It’s the little ones ya gotta watch,” Bruck told Obi-Wan, observing her in the salles with Obi-Wan’s master, whose guard she had just slipped under to dart in and score what could have been a crippling hit with a full-strength saber. “They fight dirty like you and Tachi.”

Obi-Wan sniffed disdainfully and refused to rise to the bait, but felt oddly proud of his padawan.

One afternoon, he collected Jicky after her last class and headed down into the lower levels of the Temple, the inner pockets of his cloak heavy with hidden objects.

“Where are we going, Master?” she asked as they passed into unfamiliar areas.

“To visit one of my relatives,” he told her with a mysterious smile.

The Kirtan, as always, met them before the enormous reflective doors sealing off the lowest level of the Temple. Jicky wondered how he knew they were coming.

“Master Kenobi,” the old man said, bowing.

“Kirtan.”

“Your padawan is forbidden here.”

“I would like to show her my ancestor’s grave, Kirtan. We would not go all the way down to the Sanctum.”

“Very well,” he agreed. “There are other _hinrei_.”

“We will be mindful,” Obi-Wan promised and bowed again. Jicky mirrored him, puzzled but trusting. “Your boots, padawan,” he instructed, toeing off his own. “We’ll go down barefoot as pilgrims do here, as you will for your knighting vigil.”

“This is the Hall of the Heroes? I thought this place was a myth,” Jicky said in awe.

“No, it’s quite real,” her master assured her. “At its lowest level, the Sanctum, are the remnants of the original temple and the well and Force spring it was built around. But we’re not going that far today. Here.”

From his belt, Master Obi-Wan handed her a lightstick which she bent to bring to life as the massive doors swung inward before them. Jicky swallowed heavily seeing the almost tangible curtain of darkness inside. “Stick close to the wall. There’s no railing,” her master warned her, “and it’s a long way to the bottom.”

To Jicky, it felt like kilometers down the well of winding stone and durasteel steps, which were worn smooth and slippery as well as icy cold on her bare feet. In the faint blue glow of their lightsticks, figures passed on her right, painted and free-standing and just raised from the wall, in metal and stone, wood and plaster, and other materials she couldn’t name. She wondered what their stories were, why they were here. Despite the Kirtan’s warning, they met no one else.

Finally, her master stopped at one of the dozens of landings they had passed and set down his lightstick on a thin ledge that ran its length. Jicky did the same and stepped back a little to get a better view of the figures here, while her master knelt before one in particular near the next set of steps leading down. She felt they were near the bottom, but not quite there. The air was cool and a little damp but strangely fresh for being as far underground as she thought they probably were. It smelled almost like they were outdoors in a forest. None of the figures on the bas-relief metal panels were familiar to her, either by name or countenance, except the one her master knelt before. She gasped when she saw the name. The sound echoed loudly against stone and metal and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s all right, Padawan,” her master said in a normal tone of voice. “There’s no need for silence, though it does make one want to whisper, doesn’t it? Was it the name that startled you?”

“Yeah,” she said, sitting down beside him and looking curiously at the other objects he had laid out on the ledge beside their lightsticks. “It’s your name.”

“It was his first. Every male Jedi in my family is named after him, or takes his name when we come to the Temple. The last time I was down here, I learned some interesting things about him, and I decided to come back and honor him the way my people do. I thought you might be interested to see him.”

Jicky nodded, gazing up at the fierce looking man whose image seemed ready to step from the metal panel. He looked nothing like her master, but a little like Master Jinn with his long, beaded mustache and top-knotted hair. She read the plaque beneath his feet. “‘Martyred in the Battle of Korriban’?”

“Yes. You know the history of that battle?” Jicky nodded. “He was captured by the Sith, who tried to turn him. When he refused, they beheaded him. His daughter found his body and brought it back to be Returned.”

Master Obi-Wan took up the small cone of incense, snapped his fingers over it and set it down in its tray on the ledge again, where a small curl of smoke began to rise from it. The air filled with the scent of sap and leaves and salty ocean and Jicky settled down to watch the rest of her master’s little ceremony, wondering at the idea that his ancestor had had a daughter.

Her master picked up two disk-shaped bells joined by a thong and gently tinged them together, and murmured some words in what she thought might be Danjii, then tinged the bells again and bowed with his palms together. He did this six more times then rocked gracefully to his feet, leaving the small cone of incense burning in its tray. On his feet once more, Master Obi-Wan bowed deeply with his hands tucked in his sleeves. Jicky did the same and felt his hand fall on her shoulder.

“Thank you, Padawan, for that gesture. Ready for the climb up?”

She made a face. “I was hoping there would be a lift.”

“No such luck. Come on, you.”

On the way up, he told her more about Master Kenobi, the first one, and how different the Order had been in his day, and more about the Battle of Korriban. It was like reading a good story and they were at the top of the steps before she knew it, the Kirtan greeting them with a smile.

“Master,” she said as they headed back to their quarters, “you didn’t just bring me down there to have a look at your dead ancestor, did you? You wanted to tell me that story about him. I’m not sure why, though.”

Her master said nothing for several steps then stopped and turned to her. There was something in his eyes that she couldn’t identify, though she was coming to know him well by now.  “I’m not sure either, Jicky. I think I wanted you to know something of my people, and who I come from, and what kind of a master you were stuck with, because having a padawan, at least for me, seems to be very much like having a daughter, no matter what the Code says.”

And that was the last thing that Jicky expected to hear, though it made her both strangely uneasy and deeply happy.

 

Tianna had asked Obi-Wan to skip the group session immediately after Ren’s flashback and he had missed another because of one of his own. He came home from the next session shaken and brooding, but Qui-Gon did not question him until they were in bed that night.

“You’ve been very quiet, _kosai_ ,” Qui-Gon said, turning over and curling an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist. He’d woken when Obi-Wan had slipped in beside him only an hour or so after Qui-Gon had himself retired: quite early for his partner.

Obi-Wan moved closer. “I suppose I have,” he admitted quietly. “Ren . . . Ren’s killed himself, Qui.”

The older Jedi’s heart skipped a beat and he closed his eyes for a moment, unable to fathom the amount of pain the man must have been in. “You’re not feeling responsible, I hope.”

“No. Just . . . saddened. And angry. At the waste of another life. At the cruelty of the people who drove him to this.”

“Did he leave a note?”

“No. Ti said he’d been quite depressed since his last flashback, but she’d thought he was coming out of it. I think she’s feeling a bit responsible for not anticipating his actions.”

Qui-Gon sighed. “She may not have been able to stop him, even if she had.”

“No,” Obi-Wan agreed. “She knows that too. It’s an ugly part of her work. I took her out for tea afterwards and we talked for a long time. Odd to be playing grief counselor to your therapist.”

“Not so much when she’s a friend,” Qui-Gon observed. “And you’ve known each other for a long time. How did the rest of the group take it?”

“The way one would expect: shock, grief, a little relief. I think I was the only person who actually liked Ren.”

“Did you?” Qui-Gon was surprised.

“Well, not liked, perhaps, but respected. He had a great deal of personal dignity. I think perhaps that flashback was the last blow to it that he could take. I’m grateful to him for that lesson. And many others. I’m sorry he made the choice he did.”

“So it was quite deliberate? No chance it was unintentional, or natural causes?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Very finely ground sedatives and alcohol. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“I see. Is there a service of some kind?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Tomorrow. I’d like to go.”

“Do you want company?”

Obi-Wan looked over at him, eyes crinkling with a sad smile, then rolled over and cupped his cheek. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Qui. Actually, I need someone to cover my class.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. And one other thing, if you would,” Obi-Wan continued, then pressed his mouth to Qui-Gon’s, teasing open his lips.

They made love without urgency or passion, just a quiet, comforting affection that left them both relaxed and sleepy. When they’d cleaned up, Qui-Gon spooned them together, rubbing his face in Obi-Wan’s damp hair, inhaling the scent of their bodies with a contentment so deep he wondered if it could possibly last. Obi-Wan, after snugging himself as close as possible, drifted quickly into sleep and Qui-Gon followed, thankful for the moment of peace.

* * *

 

Almost a ten after Ren’s service, Obi-Wan came to him one afternoon when both their classes were done, wearing a look of determination tinged with fear. Since coming home from his last mission, he’d driven himself ruthlessly in the salles, in therapy, and in the less physical but no less physically draining aspects of his recovery. His sessions with Tianna had tapered off again and he seemed to have reached a plateau. Qui-Gon had a moment of deja vu when Obi-Wan sat down beside him that afternoon and said, “I need your help.”

“Another experiment? Have you consulted Tianna?”

“Yes,” he replied, “to both. We discussed it this afternoon. She thinks I’m ready.”

“For what?”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you remember you said you found the idea of me in chains unbearable, in more ways than one?”

 

And that’s how they came to be standing in yet another of the small, Force-shielded salles in an out-of-the-way corridor with a privacy seal on the door.

Qui-Gon dropped the heavy satchel on the bench and sat beside it to remove his boots. “Are we treating this as a scene?” he asked in a tone as matter-of-fact as if he were asking Obi-Wan what was for dinner.

“That would be best, I think,” he confirmed, toeing off his own boots. His stomach was knotted and he sat a moment, breathing through the tension until it loosened and unwound itself. Qui-Gon put one of his big hands on Obi-Wan’s back, the fingers splayed wide, and rubbed gently.

“Our usual safeword, then?”

“I don’t know that I’ll have the presence of mind to use it, if things go wrong, Qui. But, yes, that’s probably best.”

Qui-Gon kissed his temple tenderly. “You’re safe with me, love. I’ll be very careful.”

“I know you will.” He smiled wanly.

Together, they set very clear parameters in addition to the safeword. Obi-Wan was not sure how he would react to actually being bound and if he tipped into a flashback, Qui-Gon was to let him go immediately. That hardly needed to be said. But deciding when and how to start and what Qui-Gon was actually allowed to do was more difficult.

“We can’t anticipate everything, _kosai_ ,” Qui-Gon said gently after the negotiations had continued for some time. “And it might not be useful to you in the end if we do.”

“I’m procrastinating, aren’t I?”

“It seems likely,” Qui-Gon agreed, smiling slightly. “Not that I can blame you. Shall we begin?”

Obi-Wan nodded reluctantly and finished removing his clothing, folding everything neatly and leaving it on the bench beside his boots. “Put them on.”

Qui-Gon, barefoot and stripped to the waist, pulled the set of manacles from the toolbag and approached Obi-Wan with them. Obi-Wan watched him, or rather, watched the chains swinging from his hands as a rivulet of cold sweat ran down his spine.

“Behind?” Qui-Gon asked in his mildest tone. Obi-Wan nodded and began to move his arms behind himself but Qui-Gon stopped him. “Let’s see how you react if I do it. Just stand there.”

So he did, already feeling exposed and vulnerable, as Qui-Gon took first one wrist and then the other, pulled them behind his back and snapped the manacles closed around them. More trickles of sweat ran down his back and his neck, but his breathing remained even. Qui-Gon leaned over him and licked the sweat away then bit his shoulder. Obi-Wan shuddered and closed his eyes.

“Beautiful,” Qui-Gon murmured and covered Obi-Wan’s mouth with his own.

The kiss was gentle at first, then deepened and became a little more aggressive. Obi-Wan slowly lost himself in it, until the moment he moved his hands to reach for Qui-Gon and was stopped by his chains. He gasped, brought up short, and Qui-Gon’s hand slithered up his neck, into his hair and fisted there, pulled his head back as he continued the kiss. Obi-Wan panted into his mouth until he once again lost himself, mewling under the sweet assault. His cock stirred despite his anxiety.

“Good,” Qui-Gon murmured against his lips and then stepped away. “Now your ankles. Stand there, eyes forward.”

Obi-Wan obeyed, listening apprehensively to the clinking of more chains as Qui-Gon took them from the bag. His shoulders were starting to burn from the position of his hands and he was still sweating. He started when one of Qui-Gon’s hands touched the back of one thigh and then relaxed as it traveled downward, soothing him before snapping one of the cuffs around his ankle. He swallowed heavily and waited for the second one, but Qui-Gon knelt behind him, silent, invisible and unmoving until Obi-Wan could stand it no longer and started to turn. Then there was a harsh slap on his ass and an imperious snarl: “Eyes forward, I said,” and a second manacle snapped around his ankle without warning.

Obi-Wan sensed the man behind him standing quickly, and was surprised when one of Qui-Gon’s arms went around his waist and his feet were kicked apart to the short length of the chain. Then Qui-Gon slipped around in front of him, arm still around his waist, and bent him backwards, one thigh pressed between his own, rubbing against his sex. Qui-Gon’s mouth came down once again on his own, nipping his lips until they opened in a gasp, then filling his mouth with breath and tongue. The only thing supporting him was Qui-Gon’s arm. He let himself go into that firm grasp and into the kiss, into the pressure of a hard thigh against his groin and the friction of cloth against his shaft and balls, and felt his own arousal catching fire. He was hard by the time Qui-Gon let him go and stood him upright again.

Qui-Gon stepped back for a moment to observe him and Obi-Wan felt his gaze burning through him, igniting his skin.

“Good,” Qui-Gon murmured again. “Well done, Master Kenobi. Ready for the next phase?” Obi-Wan nodded and swallowed convulsively, panting lightly. Qui-Gon took a step toward him and caressed his face. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “So brave.”

Obi-Wan felt anything but. True, he was aroused and not panicked and screaming—yet— but he knew what was coming next and it filled him with dread.

Qui-Gon walked away, his fingers trailing over Obi-Wan’s skin to the end of his reach. He heard more clanking behind him, the thunk of metal onto the floor, the sound of dragging. Qui-Gon came up behind him and clipped something between the manacles on his hands. Then he started to circle Obi-Wan, laying down a horizontal line of chain around his waist and over his arms. Once so encircled, Qui-Gon tucked the chain beneath itself again and began winding him in it in slow increments.

“Too tight?” he asked when he had wrapped three lengths around Obi-Wan’s torso and arms. It was all Obi-Wan could do to shake his head. He was sweating profusely now, his muscles trembling with fatigue or fear, he wasn’t sure which. “Count them. Distract yourself,” Qui-Gon told him, and he did, four more until Qui-Gon threw the end of the chain over his shoulder and ran it between his legs and up again to do the same on the other side. A snap, and it was fastened again to his manacles. It would take some doing to get out of this, and it would not be a quick process. Panic flooded him as a realized this, but he closed his eyes and tried to breathe through it. He felt Qui-Gon’s hands on him from behind, the big man’s mouth nuzzling his neck, behind his ear as his fingers burrowed between the links to find his nipples and pinch them, sending a jolt straight to his groin. His solid body rocked up against Obi-Wan’s, a hard shaft still encased in cloth settling against the small of his back. One hand slid away from his nipple, strumming across the chains that bound him, and began to knead his sex until he was hard again.

The chain ran to either side of his package and caught the hair there and on his chest and arms, so each small movement was a minor torment, and Qui-Gon was making him squirm. He whimpered until Qui-Gon stepped away and then his eyes flew open. He was being left here, helpless—

Then Qui-Gon came around in front of him, his eyes a hot blue, and once again sank his hand into Obi-Wan’s hair and pulled his head back for a deep, breath-stealing kiss that took all thought of the chains from his mind but left him helpless and shaking all the same. His lips felt swollen and thick by the time Qui-Gon pulled away, his cock equally so. Qui-Gon bit and sucked at his neck, his shoulder, his collarbones and then slid to his knees, hands running over the chains as though they were adornments and not bonds. He leaned back for a moment, looking hungrily at Obi-Wan’s groin, the chains framing it, then guided Obi-Wan’s cock into his mouth and gave him one of the longest and most mind-altering blow jobs he’d ever had.

It seemed to go on for eternity, and each time he was close to coming, Qui-Gon stopped, then continued again after a moment, keeping him on the edge for so long that he completely forgot about anything but the heat in his groin and his own need. He heard himself whining, panting, groaning, begging for completion. And when he was finally allowed to come, it was with a shout that rang through the room. He could not hold himself up after his orgasm. Qui-Gon eased him gently down onto his own knees and then onto the floor and held him while he gasped for breath. Only then did he become aware of the chains again and the subtle change that had taken place in his own mind about their presence. They were no longer associated strictly with suffering and pain, and though he was uneasy in them, he was not terrified, or paralyzed.

And while he was pondering this, catching his breath, Qui-Gon disappeared somewhere and came back again to kneel behind him. Before he knew what was happening, something slipped around his neck and tightened there, something hard and cold and heavy. There was another rattle of the links and a soft _snick_ and a harsh voice that said, “That was too easy, Master Kenobi. How simple to distract you with your own cock.”  He knew then that this had only been a prelude to something he had not bargained for.

He tried to get up, to meet whatever was coming on his feet, but discovered the collar around his neck had been attached to a sunken eyebolt on a very short chain. It jerked him off balance and onto the floor again, where he landed with a thud, his bonds biting into his skin. Even on his knees, he could only bend over in it, ass in the air. Nonetheless, he struggled onto them, looking up at the man who had put him there, the fear rushing back in through the sudden breach in his defenses.

His captor seemed twice as tall, twice as broad as before, clad in dark brown boots and matching trousers that bulged with a package of significant size, obviously aroused, his chest and belly muscled and scarred. He stood over Obi-Wan, arms raised, braiding his own hair back from his face and out of his way, which made his features severe and predatory. When he had tied off the braid, he went back to the bench by the wall and lifted something from it, not the cane or the flogger Obi-Wan had expected, but a short single-tail with a knotted thong. Obi-Wan went cold suddenly and started to shiver. “No,” he said. “That’s—”

“Not what you agreed to, Master Kenobi? Are you going to squawk your safeword now and crumple? Or are you going to show me what you’re made of?” His master knelt before him again and grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled him up against the chain until the collar cut into his neck and shoulders. Then he leaned down and hissed, “you were happy enough to come in my mouth,” and he pushed into Obi-Wan’s again, making sure he could taste himself there. “Now it’s my turn.”

 

Qui-Gon looked down at his former padawan, at the trembling muscles beneath the durasteel links, and wondered for a moment if this was going to work, or if he should call it off now. The younger man’s eyes were pinpoints, almost as though he were drugged, and the bond tasted of burnt metal. Then, leaning back from that harsh kiss, he saw something harden in Obi-Wan’s eyes. His pupils dilated in preparation for flight or a fight, but the aftertaste of burnt metal leached quickly out of the bond and was replaced by a spicy heat that burned almost painfully in Qui-Gon’s mouth. There was no question of flight, suddenly, and very little fear.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but stop talking and get on with it,” Obi-Wan snarled, diving headfirst into his role.

Qui-Gon smiled in both relief and pleasure, unfurling the short whip and giving it a quick snap with his wrist. The tip of it touched Obi-Wan’s shoulder lightly, like a kiss. He watched the color bloom on the pale skin, a thin welt rising there in the wake of Obi-Wan’s sudden awareness of the hit, and felt the sting on his own shoulder through the bond. It was not enough to start the cascade of endorphins that made this so pleasurable for Obi-Wan, but it was a promise of things to come. Obi-Wan’s breath hitched but he bared his teeth in defiance. Qui-Gon felt a thrill go through his veins and settle in his groin. There was nothing like having this beautiful, strong man at his feet bound and defiant—except the pleasure of making him beg.

He had been practicing for tens in a small room just like this one until the short whip was as much an extension of his will and his physical self as his own lightsaber. He was capable of hitting targets, even moving ones, as small as a fingertip as lightly as he had just touched Obi-Wan or hard enough to cut through flesh and sinew down to bone. It took more skill than a flogger and more finesse than the cane Obi-Wan preferred and the sound it made, like the snap of electricity, was stimulating enough in itself to make him hard.

But not like watching the blood rush into Obi-Wan’s pale skin. He knew what it felt like; his early practice attempts had been full of mishaps that scored his own legs and arms, even his knuckles. He knew it was an instrument that could maim as easily as it gave a certain kind of pleasure and he was as respectful of it as he was his lightsaber. There was no dialing this down so it would merely scorch. Misused, or simply by accident, it would flay Obi-Wan as easily as that woman had, and that was the last thing he wanted.

What he did want was to make Obi-Wan squirm and thrash, to tip him over the edge of pain into pleasure, to make him cry out and beg for more—but not to break him. This was an act of trust on Obi-Wan’s part, but it was also a bid to heal himself, to reclaim something he’d lost. For Qui-Gon, it was a delicate balancing act between self-gratification and altruism.

Another quick flick of his wrist brought the whip’s knotted thong down across Obi-Wan’s other shoulder, a little harder, enough so to make him grunt. He ducked and flinched as Qui-Gon   feinted another move, and then tried to scuttle away as Qui-Gon moved behind him. Qui-Gon stepped hard on the slack chain between the manacles on his feet, then stooped quickly and dragged him out prone by it and stood on either end of  it. It would have been a foolish move in actual combat as Obi-Wan could easily have tipped him off it with the Force and tangled him, but brute strength alone would not be enough to move Qui-Gon’s bulk. He stood between Obi-Wan’s spread legs and flicked the whip again, this time across his buttocks, just barely breaking the skin.

The welt erupted almost instantly across the pale flesh of Obi-Wan’s ass, tiny beads of blood appearing along it. Obi-Wan grunted and twitched, swearing under his breath.

“What was that, _furyo_?”

Obi-Wan stiffened for a moment at that word—“prisoner of war” in Danjii—then repeated the Huttese curse he had uttered with feeling, impugning Qui-Gon’s parentage and sexual habits. Qui-Gon grinned and snapped the single-tail again, welting another patch of skin and making Obi-Wan jerk under him. This one was just a tease like the first two and got little reaction. Even so, Qui-Gon could feel the endorphins starting to build up in his system, so he stopped and knelt between Obi-Wan’s spread legs, folding himself over the younger man and forcing him up on his knees again.

“What’s the matter, _furyo_?” he whispered in Obi-Wan’s ear, then bit down hard on the join of neck and shoulder.

Obi-Wan bucked up against him, trying to throw him off, but he was too constricted by his chains. “Too much talk!” he growled.  “Is that all you know how to do?”

“Oh, no, _furyo_. So anxious to see? Very well.”

Qui-Gon licked the back of his neck, the welts on his shoulders, then slithered down his body and pulled his cheeks apart. A hot tongue drilling into him made Obi-Wan gasp in a way he hadn’t under the whip, but Qui-Gon didn’t linger there. He got to his feet again and began to flick the single tail over Obi-Wan’s body, sometimes just missing, sometimes just kissing it, sometimes welting, sometimes barely splitting the skin. The tension of not knowing when or where or how hard he was going to be hit began to tell on him quickly. He flinched and squirmed and tried not to, his hair damp with sweat, his face contorted in what could be read as either agony or ecstasy. Qui-Gon thought he had never looked so beautiful, bound in steel, lashed with leather, flushed and scored.

Then Qui-Gon began to curl the end of the whip around his torso. Often as not it landed on the chains and left no mark, but it just as often slipped between them, until Obi-Wan was writhing and panting, glistening with sweat and whimpering. Qui-Gon watched him hungrily, tasting the heat of spice in the bond, and feeling the cascade of endorphins in Obi-Wan’s body begin.

He concentrated then on quick flicks over Obi-Wan’s backside and watched the welts make a crosshatch pattern across the pale skin there until Obi-Wan was shuddering and moaning, the feedback through the bond like a shower of hot sparks. Finally, Qui-Gon could stand it no longer.  His own knees shaking, he knelt behind Obi-Wan again and opened the fastenings on his trousers. His cock surged up, freed at last, and he slicked it quickly with the lube he had tucked into his waistband when they’d started, then maneuvered Obi-Wan up on his knees and pushed roughly inside. Obi-Wan, his face turned to one side against the floor and wet with tears, cried out. “Yes! Now! Now! Now!” he sobbed, as Qui-Gon drove into him. Within moments, the cascade became a torrent and they both went under, Qui-Gon with a roar, Obi-Wan with what was almost a scream, drowning in the flood of ecstatic pain.

 

Obi-Wan came back to himself as Qui-Gon removed the collar from him. “Beautiful man,” his master murmured in his ear and kissed his temple. He was on his side on the floor, panting, sweaty, face wet with tears, cuts stinging with salt, still chained, but euphoric as he had not been in far longer than he could remember. Still weeping, he started to laugh and was shocked to realize how good it felt, and let himself go with it, living fully in that moment. A giddy joy filled him and bubbled over, drawing Qui-Gon in and painting a broad grin across his features even as he continued to remove the chains. Obi-Wan continued to laugh even as Qui-Gon eased him up on his knees and the chains around his torso were loosened, fell into his lap, and were lifted over his head, as the manacles came off his wrists and ankles. By then he was laughing so hard that it doubled him over and pushed more tears out of him. He let out a loud whoop and collapsed again on the floor, still laughing. Qui-Gon curled up behind him and snugged him close, kissing the back of his neck and shoulder repeatedly.

Eventually, the laughter died down and Obi-Wan wiped his eyes and squirmed back against Qui-Gon.

“Well, that wasn’t the reaction I expected,” Qui-Gon observed, propping himself up on an elbow and trailing his fingers tenderly over Obi-Wan’s cheek.

“No, that was totally unexpected,” Obi-Wan agreed, still panting. “What gave you the idea of using a whip?”

“We hadn’t done it before. I thought something new, something that blurred the line more, might be more useful than something we’d already done.”

“So you bought one and practiced, obviously.”

“I did,” Qui-Gon confirmed, “anticipating your request.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, sighing. “You never cease to amaze me, _iji aijinn_.”

“Sit up and let me take care of the cuts, love,” Qui-Gon urged him, smiling benignly.

Obi-Wan did, and hissed as his heels touched his buttocks. “I think I’d better stand, actually,” he said, suiting action to words.

Qui-Gon emulated him, then retrieved a spray bottle of bacta from the bag on the bench, dumping the chains into the bag as well. The sound still made Obi-Wan clench his hands, but that was all.

He sighed quietly when the cool spray hit his skin, the sting disappearing and the throb of the welts dying down. When the spray had dried, Qui-Gon slowly ran his hands over Obi-Wan’s skin, not quite touching it, the warmth of the Living Force spreading over him. Slowly, the welts disappeared, leaving only the marks of his whipping behind, sealed in bacta.

“Better?” Qui-Gon asked him.

“More than you know,” Obi-Wan replied fervently.

* * *

 

That wasn’t the end of it, of course. Ren’s death continued to haunt Obi-Wan and other members of the group, leaving many of them subdued and tearful. It gave Obi-Wan nightmares. More than once, he woke from seeing himself awkwardly grinding something in a mortar, one arm in a bristling brace, despair in his heart and his intent clear only to himself. It was a view of the future that disturbed him almost as much as the pyre he had once seen in Qui-Gon’s future. He wondered what it meant. Eventually, the visions faded, though he neglected to mention them to Tianna and wondered why.

He and Qui-Gon staged several more scenes with the single tail. Two pushed Obi-Wan into a new flashback, but neither lasted long. Both times, he came out of them kneeling between Qui-Gon’s legs with the feeling that he’d lost only a little time, something Qui-Gon confirmed. The next one seemed more like a brief episode of panic than a flashback. Finally, Qui-Gon led him blindfolded one night into the depths of the temple to a Force-shielded room used to hold prisoners, shackled him to eyebolts in the ceiling, stripped him, and turned on the Force shielding.

And left him there.

The moment the Force deserted him and the door closed, Obi-Wan broke into a sweat and began to shiver, the panic rising in him like a storm tide. He could see nothing, sense nothing through the Force or his bond with Qui-Gon, hear nothing in the room’s silence but the rattle of his chains with each shiver and his own quick breathing. It was just like before. He was all alone, helpless, at another’s mercy. . . . His heart raced and his knees buckled as he gave a little gasp of panic and a whimper that wanted to build to a scream that he knew he’d be unable to stop. That reaction irritated him and set his resolve. He was tired of this, tired of being betrayed by his own mind and body.

He clenched his hands and released them, pushed himself upright again, and forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply while he concentrated on where he was—not on the past, not on the future. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment then murmured, “Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force.” He’d been through this already. He knew what it felt like. He knew that in the end, the worst that could happen would be a release from the pain. Most of all, he knew he wasn’t anywhere unsafe. Not now, not this minute. He repeated the Code’s reassurances twice more, each time in a voice that was clearer and stronger, until the trembling stopped and he was standing calmly in his chains, his features set in a serene smile.

He heard the cell’s door open and a moment later felt the rush of the Force filling him once again, filling him with light and warmth and power. He gathered it to himself and used it like a wedge to pry open his manacles as Qui-Gon crossed the cell to him. He turned, lifting off the blindfold and rubbing his wrists, to greet his “captor” with smile of triumph.

Qui-Gon cupped his face in both large hands, smiled down at him and then kissed him lightly. “Well done, Master Kenobi. Very well done.” He kissed Obi-Wan again, giving it attention, then leaned back and rested his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, looking squarely into his eyes. “You are such an extraordinary man, Obi-Wan. A great Jedi, as I knew you would be.”

For once, Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon’s praise might be deserved.

* * *

 

Even his students—both his padawan and his university students—noticed the change in him, though Obi-Wan only noticed the change in them in retrospect, much to his chagrin. The discussion in class seemed more relaxed, his students less cautious with him, less anxious in his presence. Only now did Jicky admit that being around him for the last several tens had been like breathing frigid air: sharp, cold, a little painful, tinged with blood. “But that’s gone, now,” she said, slipping her hand into his as they headed home from the salles. “Now the air’s like more like spring around you. Kinda early spring, but at least it’s warmer.”

“Why didn’t you say something, Jicky?”

She turned her face up to his and shrugged, brown eyes startlingly dark and serious. “What good would it do? You were already trying so hard. You didn’t need me giving you something else to worry about.”

Her words surprised him and touched him, to realize how much she had been taking care of him. He let go her hand and instead pulled her close, an arm around her shoulder; they walked the rest of the way home that way, Jicky with an arm around his waist, nestled comfortably against him.

 

Tianna was more cautious but still optimistic.

“You’re never going to be entirely free of flashbacks, Ow,” she warned him nearly a ten later at one of their now-infrequent sessions. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I think that’s been made quite clear to me, yes,” Obi-Wan replied. “I know there are other triggers, ones I probably am not aware of yet. But I fought the last flashback down in under three minutes. They’re both less frequent and less overwhelming now.”

“That’s still long enough to get you dead in a fight,” Tianna pointed out archly, then sighed in mock exasperation. “If I didn’t think you’d like it, I’d give you such a smack upside your head.”

Obi-Wan merely smiled. “You’re just mad because I’ve done it so quickly.”

Tianna’s demeanor sobered. “That’s the last thing I’d ever be mad about, Ow, that you would get well quickly. I think you’ve caused yourself a lot of unnecessary suffering though, and quite honestly, you’ve put Qui-Gon through the wringer with you. At least you’ve kept your padawan out of it. Most of all, though, I’m not sure how real your progress is.”

“Is that why you’re so reluctant to field certify me?”

“Yes. But I’m going to do it anyway, with the proviso that you work with a partner for a time.”

“A babysitter.” Obi-Wan scowled.

“A backup,” Tianna countered. “A failsafe for you and your padawan.”

“I don’t suppose I have much choice, do I?”

“None at all, actually. Unless you count staying home and cooling your heels. How’s another semester with university students strike you?”

“Tyrant,” he grumbled.

“Ow, you have a bad habit—and you have since you were in the creche—of charging into things before you’re ready, to prove your worthiness. It’s past time you got over it.”

Obi-Wan flushed lightly under the accusation because it was true and he knew it.

“That said,” Tianna continued, “you work harder than just about anyone I know, too. I’m going to ask that Bruck be your assigned partner; that should make it easier for you. And I want to see you after each mission, is that clear, Master Kenobi?”

“Crystalline, Healer Iolan,” he replied in formal acknowledgment. Friend or no, Tianna was responsible for the health of the field operatives and he had no business trying to get around her for his own motives. She was right about that. He had no business endangering his padawan either. Bruck, at least, had a good idea of how to deal with his flashbacks, and knew what they looked like, as well as how to take care of himself.

Tianna got to her feet. Obi-Wan followed. “I’ll file the forms this afternoon. You’ll be officially back on field rotation when your class wraps up.”

“Thank you, Ti. For everything.”

She stepped into his embrace and hugged him hard. “You did all the hard work, Ow. I just prodded you. The Force be with you.”

 

He made one last visit to the group, more to thank them than to say goodbye. He suspected he would probably be back occasionally, and said as much. As Eleria had warned him at the beginning, most of them had become like family to him, especially in the wake of Ren’s death. He cared very much what happened to them and was determined to stay in contact with them.

Afterwards, as promised, he introduced Eleria to Bail Organa, and within moments felt completely superfluous to the conversation. By the time he excused himself, they were discussing collaboration plans and Bail was compiling a list of further contacts for her for her refugee and torture victim work.

Then there was nothing left but to wind up his class and wait for a mission. Happily, there was little lag time between the submission of his final grades and the summons before the Council for his next assignment, with Bruck at his side. It wasn’t long before Bruck only half-jokingly began to call the three of them the “B Team.” “Broken and Boneheaded, you mean?” Obi-Wan retorted. “Which one are you?” Bruck riposted with a grin.

Predictably, the missions started easy: negotiations, treaties, covert scouting, diplomacy. They became progressively more dangerous, and Jicky’s skills grew to match them, thanks to attention from what she’d come to think of as all three of her masters, though she saw little of Master Qui-Gon during their field rotation. Obi-Wan made certain to keep her saber skills up to par, but it was Bruck who pointed out she had an affinity for both strategy like her master, and other weapons and hand combat, like Bruck. Obi-Wan had come to the same conclusion himself and urged her to pursue it. “Play to your skills, Padawan,” Obi-Wan told her. “It’s not necessary, or wise, to exactly emulate your own master.”

Jicky grinned. “That’s what Master Qui said too. Only it was something like ‘don’t pick up your master’s bad habits.’”

“I’m not surprised,” Obi-Wan said wryly, “as I got most of mine from him.”

The end of each mission brought not only a report to the Council, but an evaluation from Tianna. He started to make a habit of checking in with the group, as well, if his schedule permitted. There was something about being with them, even if he said nothing, that made him feel if not more whole then at least less broken. He cherished being able to celebrate their small triumphs: a new job, an apartment, the acquisition of important documents, a milestone in their judicial cases, an anniversary passed without trauma, and was happy to offer one or two of his own. New faces appeared, old ones left. If possible, he kept in touch with those who exited the group as well, Eleria in particular, whose association with Bail had led her into a powerful lobbying position. Her fierce dedication and deceptive mildness led to more success than either Obi-Wan or Tianna would have guessed. It made Obi-Wan feel that at least some good had come out of his own suffering, if it had put them all in touch with one another.

The work didn’t stop with his evaluations or visits to the group. When he wasn’t in the field or training Jicky, Obi-Wan spent a great deal of time either in the scholar’s garden raking gravel, or on his arse in his favorite meditation spot in their quarters, and even his meditation sessions in the field were longer than usual. He felt himself drawn more and more into the Living Force in his meditation, though he remained closely aligned with the Unifying Force. The Living Force seemed a haven to him now, strengthening both his bonds, soothing and quieting his mind. It came easier to his hand now, as well, and he understood at last why Qui-Gon had told him years ago that he had much to learn yet even while saying he was ready for his trials. One never stopped learning, really, and he would never have come to this level of intimacy with and understanding of the Living Force without the experiences he’d had as a Knight, or without his Padawan.

A half-year later, the B Team had become somewhat notorious for their success rate in difficult missions, whether tricky negotiations, the shut-down of smuggling rings, disaster relief, or prisoner extractions. The latter, unsurprisingly, were the most difficult for Obi-Wan and their successful completion without a flashback felt like passing some kind of test. Apparently, Tianna and the Council thought so too, and cleared him for solo work.

“Talk about good news and bad news,” Bruck muttered as they left the Council chamber after receiving the news.

Obi-Wan nodded. He felt an odd mixture of elation, relief, and regret. “Seems a shame to break up a perfectly good team.”

“It does, doesn’t it? On the other hand, it means you’re fit for duty again, and there’s twice as much butt-kicking Jedi to go around now, which is good too.”

Obi-Wan stopped and turned in the hallway, putting a hand on Bruck’s shoulder. “Thanks for watching my back. I’m going to miss working with you, B-Boy.”

“Yeah, we make a good team, Ben. Who knew?” Bruck grinned. “I doubt this’ll be the last time we work together though. The fans will want a reunion tour sometime.”

Obi-Wan laughed and clapped Bruck on the shoulder. “I hope you’re right.”

* * *

 

Qui-Gon felt his beloved’s newly returned presence long before he reached the door of their quarters. His young man and the young man’s padawan had gotten in right on time after their second solo mission. As always, he could sense the comforting and comfortable presence of his fellow Jedi around him, and Jicky’s lively presence in their quarters as well, even before she came rocketing out of the door. She stopped short for a moment and sketched a bow at him, then pelted off down the hallway, tossing “I’ll be home for dinner, Master Qui!” over her shoulder with a big grin. He nodded and waved as the taste of sweet tea filled his mouth through the bond. Obi-Wan had obviously heard them. There was something different about that taste this afternoon, though. No, he thought, pausing at the door. Not different. Something extra. Something new. And not all that new, now that he thought about it. It had been that way for some time now; he just hadn’t really paid attention until this moment because the difference was so familiar.

He inhaled deeply and caught the scent of green, as though there were a jungle of growing things inside, which seemed unlikely. Obi-Wan didn’t mind his partner’s horticultural collection, but he was unlikely to add to it. And the scent was more ephemeral than that, more taste than actual scent—ah, he thought, understanding.

Qui-Gon opened their door and stepped through, bending below the low lintel without even thinking about it. As he suspected, Obi-Wan was sitting on a meditation cushion facing the balcony door, the slanting afternoon light setting off the red-gold highlights of his hair. Quietly, Qui-Gon removed his boots and knelt beside his lover, studying his profile. A slight smile curved his lips upward, matching the one on Obi-Wan’s otherwise serene face. His hair and beard fairly glowed in the sunlight, the one falling nearly to his shoulders now, the other still closely trimmed around his mouth; red-gold eyebrows formed perfect arches above his closed eyes, and pale eyelashes lay against his cheeks. _Such a beautiful color,_ Qui-Gon thought, fingers itching to run through the long, silken mop before Obi-Wan could cut it again. _Time enough for that._ For the moment, he closed his own eyes and watched his breath come and go until the green scent and taste became stronger, until the Living Force filled him up like a cup.

And there was Obi-Wan’s presence in the midst of all that riotous life, nestled into it like an animal in a burrow. The image of his lover as some prick-eared little predator with a red, furry bush of tail wrapped around his sharp nose, sleeping peacefully, flashed through Qui-Gon’s mind. The idea filled him and the bond with a quietly bubbling laughter that made Obi-Wan more actively aware of his presence. Then he caught an equally quick flash of himself, in Obi-Wan’s mind, as a large, graceful, tawny-coated felid padding through the underbrush, clearly stalking something. That amused him even more and he laughed aloud, pulling both of them up out of their meditations.

Obi-Wan’s hand reached for his as he opened eyes that had gone emerald as his master’s sword blade. Qui-Gon took it, running his thumb over the back of Obi-Wan’s hand, feeling the calluses on the palm rasp on his own as he twisted his hand and entwined their fingers.

“Is that really how you see me?” he asked Obi-Wan.

“Sometimes,” Obi-Wan admitted with his trademark half-smirk. “Particularly when you’re stalking me across the bed or the salles. Is that how you see me?”

“No. . . . Not usually,” Qui-Gon answered slowly. “Usually you’re a bright, quick flame in my mind. But I don’t often sense you in the Living Force. You’ve deepened your connection to it in the past half year.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I’ve had to. It’s the only place I’ve found any peace.”

“Why is that?” Qui-Gon asked, curious. Obi-Wan had always been at home in the Unifying Force’s streams of time and physics.

The younger man shook his head. “There’s . . . too much in the Unifying Force. I can’t sort it out. Memory and possibilities, past and future. If I open that connection too wide, I . . . see things. It’s overwhelming sometimes, especially since I can’t do anything about them. The Living Force is always _now._ I need that anchor, that awareness.” He squeezed Qui-Gon’s hand. “And you’re always there, padding through the underbrush or sitting in the shade, watching.”

“Not napping paws up in the sun like an old pride leader?” Qui-Gon teased.

“Even when you are, I just curl up next to you,” Obi-Wan replied with a smile.

Qui-Gon drew him in gently and their arms went around each other. “Curl up with me here?” he murmured into Obi-Wan’s bright hair.

“Always,” Obi-Wan responded and moved closer until they were both comfortably wrapped together.

Jicky found them that way when she came in for dinner: sitting in the setting sun, breathing quietly together in each others arms. Obi-Wan looked over his shoulder as she took off her boots and held out a hand. She padded over and slipped underneath his arm, settling against him with a happy sigh until the sun went down and left the three of them in shadow.


End file.
